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GUIDO, 



A tale; 



SKETCHES FROM HISTORY, 



OTHER POEMS. 



lANTHE. y jyU^. 



'Tis to create, and in creating live 
A being more intense, that we endow 
With forms our fancy, gaining as we give 
The life we image, even as I do now. 



NEW YORK. 

G. * C. CARVII-L.-108 BROADWAY 

1828. 



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, SOUTHERN DISTRICT OF NEW YORK, sf^" ♦ • t^* 

BE TT REM KMBERED^ that on the Thirtv-fiisVday of Oct*^bpr, A. D. 
1828,ifiUie fil'ty'-^hjrd year of the Indepeiwleuc-e of theiJnited f-tates of A'mef- 1 j^ 
jca. G (J- C. CarvUl, of'the said Dit^trici, h-Ave deposited in this office, thetitl* ^W^* 
of a befck, the right whereof thejifcctaiirCas proprietors, in thejN'orcS'fbli6AyDgt "»• 
tpwit: ^ '*'■-*»»*'•• 

*' Gjjiido, a Tale; Sketclies from History, andt)tljier*Poeins. By laflttie. * 
'Tis to create, and tncreathig l4\e ■ 

A he ng more intense, ibat vre endow 
With flftrmsoui fancy, gainyjg'aswe^ive * 

The life we image, even as 1 do now. ^'t- ^ - * «. 

♦ * •<< ^ Byror^'^ :* * 

In conformity to the Act of Congress of tlie United State% entitler!, *''An 
Act for the encouragement of I>earniug, by securfhgth^ct^iesof '»!ajis, Charts, 
*and Books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the time 
therein mentior)(|d.V And also ^o an Act, entitled, "'An Act,suppi^meutary~ to 
an Act, entitledan Act foi*the encouragement of Learning, by securing the copies 
of ^aps, Charts, an^} Books, to the»autl»ars and. proprietors of such copies, 
during tlie times f hereiij mentioned, and extending the bfene^sthereol toXhe arta 
' ofnlesigning, engraving, and etching historical and other prints." , » 

« *FRED. I ^fiTTS. 'V - 

Clerk of the Southern District of New York.'* 

* * . * %k 

♦ •'I • I 

O •• ^ • • " 4 

-* n -w X •» V**** 

R <$- G. S. WOOD, PRINTERS. .• ^ " * 
• * ^' V 






CONTENTS 



♦ A 






'^'•ir 






*:^ 



OUIDO: A TALE. 



^, Part •||. 
Part II. 






• 

Page. > 



• * 



PjErt III. 









SKETCHES FROM HISTORY. 

Jane p^ Ffajjce . ** . 

Scenes in the iTfe or a Lovet . * * 



« 



Bpscolrel .^^ * 






• Queen Elizabeth f •^^ ■ . ' 
^The Lament o£ Columbus 
' The Shipwr£;^k of ^Camoens 
The Lament of Caaioens 
The* P^l of Bethesda . a »,.*■ 



♦©• 



Christ 'in the Tempest 



'•r- 



'BALES AI?D MISqpLLANEdUS PIECES. 

t*li'Jmprt)visat|:ic§ , . ^ 
♦♦.Xhe^otheii, *,*.,♦ 



I* Clara 






32 
40 
51 
60 
66 
72 
78 
81 
85 



91 
100 
106 



IV. 



CONTENTS 



Edgar and Ada . 

Mina 

The Shepherd Boy 

The Bride 

The Lonely One 

The Moravian Burial Ground 

The Mother's Farewell to her Wedded 

To the Evening Star 

To Fancy 

To 

Stanzas . 

William Tell on the Mountains 

William Tell in Chains . 

Stanzas 

A Sketch 

To 

The Dying Year 

Stanzas 

The Maiden to her Rejected Lover 

Stanzas . 

Spring Breezes . 

Song of Morning 

The Farewell . 

Life 

The Faded Passion Flower 



Daucfhter 



GUIDO. 



A TALB 



« 



Dans le bonheur d'autrui je cherche mon bonheur." 

Conieille.—'Le Cid. 



GUIDO 



The halls were bright, and music echoed round, 
While merry feet responded to the sound, 
As light as is the gentle rustling heard 
When the fresh leaves by evening's breath are stirred 
Aye, beautiful v^ere those resplendent rooms, 
All light, and flovrers, and dehcate perfumes ; 
While many a brilliant form sv^^ept gaily by, 
With lofty step, and proudly flashing eye ; 
And many a knight, stern on the battle field, 
Taught by sweet woman's witchery to yield, 
Was bowed to her capricious smile ; and now 
'Twas pleasant to behold the warrior brow 
Bending before some gentle girl, as fair 
And delicate as a thing all light or air. 



4 GUIDO. 

Apart from the gay throng, a pale youth stood, 
As, though mid thousands, still in solitude, 
Holding a simple lyre : not his the form 
That ladies love to look on and to charm : 
Small, slender, boyish was his figure ; pale 
His sunken cheek that told a mournful tale 
Of early suffering ; though his eye was proud, 
And bright as flashes from the thunder cloud ; 
His thin and flexile lips seemed meant to pour 
The wealth of song, but not the honied store 
Of youthful love ; and though his raven hair 
Fell on a lofty brow, yet early care 
Had left its foot-prints on it. — What doth he 
Amid that joyous scene of revelry ? 

He was the castle's lord, and he in truth 
Had tasted sorrow ; on his early youth 
No parents kindly smiled ; their pride, their joy 
Was centred in their younger, fairer boy. 



G U I D O. £ 

The mother gazed upon the charms that dwelt 

In JuUo's noble face, until she felt 

Her soul, almost with loathing, turn away 

From Guido's pale and shrunken form ; — each day 

Guido more keenly felt this ; his stern sire 

Loved the proud boy who stood with eye of fire 

To hear the tale of battles fierce and wild, 

But turned in scorn upon his feebler child — 

*' What comest thou too ? no, boy, thy woman's hand 

Was never meant to grasp the blood stained brand ; 

Julio's high heart is vowed to chivalry, 

But nursery legends are more fit for thee.'* 

He little knew the being he despised — 

Guido had not the gifts by warriors prized ; 

But genius o'er his soul had poured its light : 

His was the poet's wreath, and oh, how bright 

It shone o'er wasted feeling's hopeless night ! 

Dearly the brothers loved each other — birth 

Placed Guido first ; but all men hold of worth, 



6 G U I D O. 

All that they deem the richest goods of heaven, 
Love, beauty, honour were to Julio given ; 
While all the hapless elder-born could claim 
Beyond his birthright, was a minstrel's fame. 
Yet did they cling together — nought could speak 
To Julio's heart like Guido's kindling cheek ; 
And praise might fall upon his ear in vain, 
If that loved voice re-echoed not the strain ; 
While Guido felt as if not quite bereft 
Of all life's joys, since Julio yet w^as left. 

That sire w^as dead — that brother far away, 
And Guido now must celebrate the day 
When first he claimed his birthright, but how sad 
Was his young heart while all around was glad ! 
He felt that to his noble name he owed 
The homage of the gay and thoughtless crowd. 
He knew that, had he been the younger born. 
He had been deemed a tiling that men might scorn 



G U I D O. 7 

And, now he stood apart from all, a smile 

Of cold contempt curled his pale lip the while 

That they, who bowed the castle's lord to greet, 

Should think him duped by such scarce-veiled deceit. 

But these unkindly feelings were not made 

To dwell with poesy: his fingers strayed 

Across his harp strings, then, to still the throng 

Of wayward thoughts, he calmed them thus with song : 

Nay, tell me not of woman's charms — 
Why should I heed though she be fair ; 

Bid me not mark those brilliant forms 
With step as light as summer air — 

I dare not heed their witchery, 

Since beauty was not meant for me. 

I gaze upon the lofty brow ; 

But changeless is its snowy hue — 
I view the cheek where roses glow ; 

The lip where love sips honey dew ; 



» G U I D O. 

But lip, cheek, brow in vain I see, 
Since beauty was not meant for me. 

Yet I have dreamed of one whose cheek 

Upon my bosom might find rest ; 
Whose eye in love's sweet glance might speali, 

Whose lip might to mine own be prest ; 
But vain must all such visions be, 
Since beauty was not meant for me. 

As one might gaze on some bright star 
Lighting yon deep blue heaven above, 

So I may worship from afar, 
But never dare to hope or love — 

Love's star is bright — alas for me ! 

It shines not o'er my destiny. 

The song had ceased ; but still the minstrel seemed 
Gazing on visions he too oft had dreamed ; 



G U I D O. 9 

Till the low tones of woman's voice awoke 

New thoughts, new dreams ; for of himself she spoke : 

" And is he always thus — so sad and pale ? 

Surely that brow reveals a mournful tale." 

He started — turned — oh ! years might not erase 

The memory of that young and lovely face. 

Her eye met his full gaze — a deep blush shone 

O'er her fair cheek and brow — then — she was gone. — 

But those sweet words of kind and gentle feeling, 

The look, that beamed on him so bright, reveahng 

All woman's pitying tenderness, now fell 

On Guido's soul like some bewitching spell 

Bidding his wayward phantasies depart, 

And chasing all the demon from his heart. 

Where is he now ? — his simple lyre thrown by, 
With joyous smile the bard is seated nigh 
That graceful girl — e'en had she not been fair 
Guido had found some trace of beauty there ; 



10 GUI DO. 

For he recalled the look, the low-breathed word 
That with such new bom bliss his feelings stirred ; 
But she was beautiful — ^'twas not the glow 
Of simple beauty decked her cheek and brow ; 
For on her lofty forehead, mind had made 
Its visible temple ; her thick tresses strayed 
Down on her neck, as if they feared to rest 
On that proud brow, but loved her gentler breast ; 
Her eye was dark as midnight, yet as bright 
As if no tear had ever dimmed its light ; 
Lovely as love's first dream were her sweet lips ; 
Sweet as the honey that the wild bee sips 
On famed Hjinettus ; the pale, pearl-like hue 
Of her soft cheek was fair as if it drew 
Its tint from purity ; the oval face 
So like some sculptured statue's classic grace ; 
The nobly-arching brow ; the veined lid, 
'Neath which the full dark eye was scarcely hid ; 
The short, curved upper lip — aye, Guido dwelt 
On all these charms, until his spirit felt 



GUI DO. 11 

As though it looked on some bright deity ; 
But oh ! what passing joy was his, when she 
Looked kindly on him, and, with gentle wile, 
Sought to win back to his pale lip the smile ! 

The crowd have passed away, and, mid the sighs 
Of dying odours, Guido lonely lies 
Wrapt in fair dreams of beauty ; but each thought 
With the remembrance of one face is fraught : 
He oft had fancied, but to night he feels 
How much of sweetness w^oman's look reveals. 



PART II 



Alas ! alas for me ! I cannot sing 
Of happiness or joy's imagining ; 
I touch my wild and mournful lyre in vain, 
It but returns the murmurings of pain ; 
Or if perchance I strike the chord of love, 
It breathes the plaintive moanings of the dove 
Who wails in loneliness her long lost mate ; 
I sing of love — but love left desolate ! — 

Time passed away — how rapidly time fleets, 
When every hour is redolent of sweets ! 
'Tis vain to trace the progress of love's power- 
What eye can mark the springing of a flower ? 



G U I D O . 13 

All those impassioned feelings that so long 

Were sealed in Guido's heart — the countless tlii'ong 

Of early hopes and fancies — all were poured 

Upon one altar : — oh, how rich the hoard 

Of treasured love in such a heart must be ! - 

And must its sole reward be misery ? 

'Tis vain to trace the progress of love's power — 

Love was not here the playthmg of an hour : 

They walked together, and the lovely face 

Of nature wore for Guido richer grace ; 

And e'en the breath of Heaven more perfume cast, . 

When o'er Floranthe's cheek and lip it past ; 

They read together, and new beauties shone 

Upon the poet's page, till then unknown : 

Ah, woman's eyes may charm, but there is nought 

That with such peril to man's heart is fraught. 

As when he breathes the poet's thoughts that burn 

With passionate energy, and those eyes turn 

With pleasure on him ; or when both are stirred 

With simultaneous feeling ; though no word 

3 



14 



G u I D a. 



Is uttered, yet the meeting look, the smile, 
Betray how they have felt alike the while ; 
Or when, with gentle care, he leads her mind 
To loftier energies and thought refined, 
And she is blushing, half with shame to know 
She needs such knowledge, half with joy, to owe 
Its wealth to him : — aye, Guido knew too well 
How strongly this may aid love's powerful spell : 
Within his breast self-love too had its part 
(Ever an active spirit in man's heart) : 
He oft had known the voice of praise, but ne'er 
Till now, had heard its tones from lips so dear ; 
His song had called forth tears in those bright eyes, 
And could the minstrel ask a richer prize ? 

And yet Floranthe loved him not — ^the pride 
Of womanhood had taught her how to hide 
Her struggling feelings ; but she well had known 
Those son'ows so peculiarly love's own. 



G U I D O. 15 

So young, and proud, and beautiful, and born 
To princely honours — could there be a thorn 
Amid these flowers of life ? — the heart replies ; 
There dwells no balm in earthly vanities 
To soothe a wounded spirit ; and the sway 
Of the wide universe can ne'er repay 
One who beholds love's early hopes decay. 
She was a high souled woman ; her proud race 
Had ever won Ambition's loftiest place : 
What marvel then that, from her cliildhood, she 
Should dwell on the wild tales of chivalry ? 
She loved to roam alone through the rich halls, 
Where pictured shades of heroes decked the walls, 
Until a dream was formed within her heart, 
Which no cold light of truth could bid depart ; 
A visioned form too beautiful to fade, 
Within her breast its dwelling place had made ; 
And e'en when lofty ones before her bowed, 
She gladly turned from the adoring crowd 



IB G U I D O. 

To meet her spirit-love. — There was one name 
She oft had heard breathed by the voice of fame : 
And half unconsciously her visions bright 
Were linked with fancies of that wondrous knight. 
At length a tournament was held, and fair 
Was the array of youth and beauty there. 
Queen of the festival Floranthe shone. 
The palm of peerless beauty hers alone ; 
And oh ! what feelings then her bosom swelled. 
When first that youthful hero she beheld ! 
And oh, how richly did her young cheek glow. 
When first she placed upon his bending brow 
The laurel crown ! — The idol of her dreams. 
Bright with the light of glory's sunny beams^ 
Now stood before her, and she felt how faint 
Were fancy's tints a form like his to paint. 
From that hour she was changed — the holy flame 
Which long was fostered by the breath of fame. 
Now, like the vestal's sacred fire, had won 
A purer radiance from its parent sun ; 



» U I D o. 17 

That knight was Julio : hence it was that she 
With pity looked on Guido's misery. 
He was the brother of her love, and though 
Nature had traced no beauty on his brow, 
His voice, so like to Julio's, her heart stirred, 
Like music o'er the moon-lit waters heard ; 
And in his eyes she saw the same sweet light 
That oft in Julio's glances shone so bright. 

Why does my song thus linger ? — the dark day 
Of strife was gone, and peace resumed her sway. 
E'en as the prophet's wand could once unlock 
The hidden waters of the riftless rock, 
So thou, sweet Peace, from iron hearts can bring 
Th' unwonted freshness of affection's spring ; 
Till spurns the haughty chief his plumed crest, 
And clasps his smiling infant to his breast, 
While the proud soldier turns from scenes of war, 
Rejoiced to worship beauty's gentler star. 

3* 



l^ G IT 1 D O. 

And mid ihe mailed warriors Julio came, 
His brow encircled with its wreaths of fame. 
No more alone with Guido now were past 
Floranthe's happiest hours ; for Love had cast 
His spell around them, and beneath his wing 
Hope dared unfold her fragile blossoming ; 
For well could she, in Julio's eye, discern 
(Ah, when was woman slow such tales to learn ?) 
The growing tenderness within his breast. 
The love that made her all too wildly blest. 
But where was Guido ? did not he too see 
Within those tell-tale eyes Love's mastery ? — 
One night there was a festival, and all 
Of brave and lovely decked the joyous hall ; 
Guido beheld Floranthe's gentle hand 
Meet Julio's in the graceful saraband ; 
Yet this was nothing ; but when the light dance 
Was ended, and he saw the thrilling glance 
Exchanged between them, and her slender form 
So tenderly upheld by Julio's arm, 



GUIDO. 19 

Willie she repaid him with a timid look 
Of soft confiding love, he could not brook 
Longer to gaze upon that blasting sight ; 
Quickly he turned away — a mirror bright 
Met his full gaze — reflected there his own 
Pale, sunken cheek and wasted figure shone. 
Then on his heart, like lightning flashes, came 
The truth that woke despair's undying flame. — 
Oh ! there are moments when the heart lives o'er 
Ages of sorrow, when the eyes can pour 
No gentle flood to ease the throbbing head ; — 
But as if one among the mouldering dead 
Should start to life, and vainly strive to burst 
His prison-house, so that sad being, curst 
With such o'erwhelming grief, in vain would find 
A refuge from the horrors of the mind. 



PART III 



It was a lovely summer eve, the bay 
As calmly as a slmnbering infant lay ; 
Floranthe sate within her lonely bower, 
Her heart filled wuth strange feelings, the calm hour 
To her brought no tranquillity — the bright 
And glowing w^est, the clouds of rosy light 
She gazed upon, but saw not, and she heard 
Not e'en a sound, altho' the mild breeze stirred 
And made sweet music in the leaves — her ear 
Was all unheeding, but there was one neai' 
Who long had gazed on her — the breeze had fanned 
The clustering ringlets from her chet k ; her hand 
As delicate as a wreath of new fallen s? ow, 
Was pressed against her wildly throbbui^ brow, 



G IT I D O. 21 

And, but that on her cheek there dwelt a flush 

Like young Aurora's rosy-tinted blush, 

And, but for her bright lip, she might have seemed 

A changeless statue ; but she little deemed 

He whom she loved to think on was so nigh — 

Julio stood long and gazed on her, a sigh 

Burst from her heaving bosom, and that eye, 

Whose varying glance seemed meant but to express 

The joy of love, the pride of loveliness, 

Was clouded by sad tears — a moment more 

And Julio with bright cheek was bending o'er 

The trembling girl — but why should I repeat 

Love's follies ? — words as gentle and as sweet 

As the soft welling of the distant waves 

Of ocean o'er his deep and hollow caves ; 

Or summer breeze that sweeps the trembling strings 

Of the Eolian harp — sweet as when sings 

Some rose-lipped cherub in the starry sky : 

And oh ! how quickly can Love's thrilling sigh 



22 G U I D o. 

Win all it seeks : when Julio vowed he ne'er 
Would brook the lonely weight of life, a tear 
Stood in her eye, he felt she was his o^vn, 
For she had paused to hear him, and the tone 
Of her low voice grew fainter — they are gone. 

That hour of deep, impassioned feeling past, 
They sate within the hall, the moonbeam cast 
A dim, sweet light through the thick orange trees 
That filled the casement ; and the evening breeze 
Was faint with their rich perfume. With a smile 
That once could Guido's every grief beguile, 
Floranthe bade him wake, in cheerful song, 
Strains that to love and happiness belong : 

'Tis all in vain — I cannot sing 
The joys that happy Love may bring ; 
I cannot win mirth's blooming wreath 
Its fragrance o'er my lyre to breathe. 



G U I D O. 

They say that in bright summer bowers 

All redolent of buds and flowers 

Young Love is dwelling ; o'er his head 

The calmest, bluest skies are spread, 

And flowrets spring beneath his feet, 

As though to die by him were sweet ; 

That some with rapturous feeling, gaze 

Upon his brow's unclouded blaze. 

While others prize the gentler grace 

That glows around his half-veiled face, 

And all are happy — is it so ? 

Does Love ne'er see a shade of woe ? 

Ask not the smiling lip to tell 

The joys in Love's sweet home that dwell— ^ 

Go ask the cheek where paleness sits 

If no cloud o'er that blue sky flits ; 

If o'er those bowers so green and bright 

Grief's chilling breath ne'er throws a blight ; 

If hope's young buds ne'er fade away 

Beneath the touch of slow decay,— 



24 G U I D O. 

But pride may dye the faded cheek 
With hues that seem of joy to speak ; 
And bright the eye may still appear, 
Though all its lustre be a tear. 
Then wonder not that my sad lyre 
Breathes not of fancy's thrilling fire : 
The man who ne'er beheld the sun 
Save when dark mists its face had shrouded, 
Could never paint flowers shone upon 
By summer skies and light unclouded. 
Thus I must shun each brighter theme, 
And still of wasted feeling dream ; 
Still tales of blighted love impart, 
Because — I read them in my heart. 

Floranthe little knew the thoughts that stirred 
In Guido's breast ; she knew not he had heard 
Their plighted vows, her tender tones, when she 
Confessed the love long cherished hopelessly. 



G U I D o. 25 

Aye Guido felt her falsehood had been bliss 
To the wild thought she never had been his — 
Is it not ever thus ? — oh, who could brook 
The knowledge that each gentle word, each look 
Which hope had fancied filled with tenderness, 
Was only meant cold pity to express ? 
Oh surely it is far less grief to see 
Upon the altered brow inconstancy, 
Than still to view the loved eye's chilling beam, 
Like sun rays ghttering o'er a frozen stream. 
Guido had seen his dearest hopes depart ; 
And now one high resolve filled his lone heart, 
He knew her sire would ne'er bestow her hand 
On one whose wealth was but his battle-brand ; 
Inly he vowed that not by him should she 
Be doomed to long and hopeless misery : 
The star of life had set — why should he care 
For honours that Floranthe could not share ? 
On the next morning Julio sought to bear 
His joyful tale to liis loved Guido's ear, 



26 G U I D O. 

But vainly did he seek — the orange bower, 
The lonely grotto and the ruined tower, 
All his loved haunts, were silent now and lone ; 
His harpstrings too were broken, as if none 
Might wake its gentle voice now he was gone. 
They sought the chamber of his nightly rest, 
It was untenanted, liis couch unprest ; 
But on his ivory tablets he had traced 
Words that a burning tear had half effaced : 
" He loathed the false deceptive world, and now 
A cowl must hide his early furrowed brow ; 
And to the brother of his heart he gave 
A name proud as Ambition's self could crave, 
While for himself he sought an early grave." 

Oh ! there is never need of words to tell 
To woman's heart that she is loved too w^ell — 
The glance, the sigh in ill-dissembled hour 
Quickly betray the fulness of her power. 



G U I D o. 27 

Haply Floranthe would not then unfold 
Her every thought, while memory unrolled 
Its darkened record, and her heart hung o'er 
Each gentle look and tone unmarked before ; 
And haply too, in after years, when prest 
To her adoring husband's manly breast, 
Floranthe felt she had not been thus blest 
But for the self-devoted love which gave 
Itself to be stern sorrow's veriest slave. 



SKETCHES 



FROM 



HISTORY. 



JANE OF FRANCE. 



^' Jeanne de France etoit fille de Louis XI. et soenr 
de Charles VIII. On la maria a I'age de vingt deux ans 
avec Louis XII., I'an 1476. Elle en usa bien avec lui 
pendant qu' il etoit disgracie ; et ce fut elle qui, par ses 
prieres, le fit sortir de prison, I'an 1491 ; mais cela ne 
fut point capable de balancer dans le coeur de son mari 
I'inclination violente qu' il avoit pour la veuve de Charles 
VIII. C'etoit Anne de Bretagne , il I'avoit aimee, et en 
avoit ete aime avant qu' elle epou^at Charles. Afin done 
de contenter son envie, iljit rompre son mariage, et il pro- 
mit tant de recompense an Pape Alexandre VI. qu' il en 
obtint tout ce qu' il voulut." 

Bayle^Dictionnaire, 



JANE OF FRANCE. 



Pale, cold and statue-like she sate, and her impeded 

breath 
Came gaspingly, as if her heart was in the grasp of 

death. 
While listening to the harsh decree that robbed her 

of a throne. 
And left the gentle child of kings in the wide world 

alone. 

And fearful was her look ; in vain her trembhng maid- 
ens moved. 

With all affection's tender care, round her whom well 
they loved ; 

Stirless she sate, as if enchained by some resistless 
spell. 

Till with one wild, heart-piercing shriek in their em- 
brace she fell. 



JANEOPFRANCE. 33 

How bitter was the hour she woke from that long 

dreamless trance ; 
The veriest wretch might pity then the envied Jane 

of France ; 
But soon her o'erfraught heart gave way, tears came 

to her relief, 
And thus in low and plaintive tones, she breathed her 

hopeless grief: 



*'0h! ever have I dreaded this, since at the holy 

shi'ine 
My trembling hand first felt the cold, reluctant clasp 

of thine ; 
And yet I hoped — ^My own beloved, how may I teach 

my heart 
To gaze upon thy gentle face and know that we must 

part? 



34 JANEOFFRANCE. 

*' Too well I knew thou lovedst me not, but ah ! I 

fondly thought 
That years of such deep love as mine some change 

ere this had wrought : 
I dreamed the hour might yet arrive when, sick of 

passion's strife. 
Thy heart would turn with quiet joy to thy neglected 

wife. 



" Vain, foolish hope ! how could I look upon thy glo- 
rious form. 

And think that e'er the time might come when thou 
wouldst cease to charm ? 

For ne'er till then wilt thou be freed from beauty's 
magic art, 

Or cease to prize a sunny smile beyond a faithful 
heart. 



JANEOFFRANCE. 35 

*' In vain from memoiy's darkened scroll would other 
thoughts erase 

The loathing that was in thine eye, whene'er it met 
my face: 

Oh ! I would give the fairest realm, beneath the all- 
seeing sun, 

To win but such a form as thou mightst love to look 
upon. 



" Woe, woe for woman's weary lot if beauty be not 

hers; 
Vainly within her gentle breast affection wildly stirs ; 
And bitterly will she deplore, amid her sick heart's 

dearth, 
The hour that fixed her fearful doom—- a helot from 

her birth. 



36 JANEOFPRANCE. 

" I would thou hadst been cold and stern, — the pride 
of my high race 

Had taught me then from my young heart thine image 
to efface ; 

But surely even love's sw^eet tones could ne'er have 
power to bless 

My bosom with such joy as did thy pitying tender- 
ness. 



" Alas ! it is a heavy task to curb the haughty soul 
And bid th' unbending spirit bow that never knew 

control ; 
But harder still when thus the heart against itself must 

rise, 
And stniggle on, while ever}^ hope that nerved the 

warfare dies. 



JANEOFFRANCE. 37 

" Yet all this have I borne for thee — aye, for thy sake 

I learned 
The gentleness of thought and word which once my 

proud heart spurned ; 
The treasures of an untouched heart, the wealth of 

love's rich mine, 
These are the offerings that I laid upon my idol's 

shrine. 



" In vain I breathed my vows to heaven, 'twas mock- 
ery of prayer ; 

In vain I knelt before the cross, I saw but Louis 
there : 

To him I gave the worship that I should have paid 
my God, 

But oh ! should his have been the hand to wield the 
avenging rod ? 



SCENES IN THE LIFE OF 
A LOVER. 



Anne Boleyn, when maid of honour to Queen Catha- 
rine, was betrothed to Henry Percy, afterwards Earl of 
Northumberland, but at that time a page in the house- 
hold of Cardinal Wolsey. The king, discovering their 
attachment by means of some gem, a love-gift from 
Percy to Anne, ordered him to be removed from court. 
The young lover, after beholding the object of his alTec- 
tion elevated to the highest station in the realm, was 
finally compelled, as one of the peers of England, to pre- 
side at her trial and condemnation. 

See Miss Bender's Memoirs of Anne Boleyn. 



SCENES IN THE LIFE OP 
A LOVER. 



SCENE I, 

Within a green and flower-decked glade they stood ; 
The harvest moon was shedding a ricli flood 
Of light around them, and revealed to view 
The youth's bright glance, the deep and burning hue 
That flushed the maiden's cheek ; her lover's arm 
Was fondly clasped around her graceful form : 
But half aside she turned ; she could not brook 
The passionate fondness of his earnest look ; 
And proudly did his o'er-fraught bosom swell 
As there, to hide her blushing face, she fell. 
Upon her brow he pressed one burning kiss, 
And then in all the speechlessness of bhss 



LIFE OP A LOVER. 41 

Stood gazing on her, till low murmurs broke 

From her sweet lips, and his heart's pulses woke : 

" Now am I thine, beloved one ; doubt me not 

Amid the splendors of my courtly lot ; 

For dearer far to me this little gem 

Than e'er could be a queenly diadem ; 

And when no more my bosom it shall grace — 

The sweet remembrance of this fond embrace — 

Then deem me faithless, Henry, and despise 

The heart that only lives beneath thine eyes." 

Then to her rosy lips the maiden prest 

The gem with which his hand had decked her breast : 

" Now fare thee well, beloved one, I must go 

Once more to mingle in the heartless show 

That fills yon haughty castle — one last kiss — 

And shouldst thou doubt me, Henry, think on this." 

She glided from his arms ; her flying feet 

Scarce from the violet pressed its fragrance sweet ; 

He was alone, and thus to music's spell 

He joined the murmurs of his low farewell ; 

5* 



42 



SCENES IN THE 

Farewell to thee, dear, 

When I meet thee again, 
Light hearts will be round us 

And pageantries vain ; 
But well do I know, 

In life's sunniest hours, 
Thou'lt think of our meeting 

'Mid moonlight and flowers. 

Farewell to thee, dear one. 

And oh ! in thy dreams 
When fancy sheds o'er thee 

Her lovehest beams, 
Then think that thou rovest 

Through Percy's fair bowers, 
And remember our meeting 

'Mid moonlight and flowers. 



LITEOFALOVER. 43 



SCENE II . 

Hark ! hark to the tumuk ! the trumpets and drums 
Are waking wild mirth as the pageantry comes ; 
'Mid knights and fair dames, see tlie king proudly ride, 
While near him is borne in her glory his bride ; 
And never could England's proud diadem glean^ 
On a brow where more beauty and majesty beam. 



There's a flush on her cheek like the deep crimson 

glow 
That sunset sheds over the pure Alpine snow ; 
And her eye sheds a brightness more glorious by far 
Than the splendor that beams from Heaven's lovehest 

star ; 
There is joy in her heart, but does happiness speak 
In the wildly bright eye, and the fever-flushed chetk? 



44 S C E N E S I N T II E 

'Tis she — 'tis the maiden ! but where now is gone 
The gem that so long on her bosom had shone ? 
Though diamonds are sparkhng and pearls rich and 

rare, 
Yet the earliest offering of love is not there, 
And the king at her side is not he on whose breast, 
In that still hour of bliss, her sweet face had found rest. 

Look, look to the queen ! o'er her features are spread 
A hue like the paleness that dwells with the dead ; 
Her wandering glance, as if urged by a spell, 
Turned full on the form she had loved but too well : 
And how did her heart with wild agony beat, 
As she thought of those hours still in memory too 
sweet ! 

Oh ! sadly he looked on her robes rich and gay ; 
He had seen that form fairer in simple array ; 
And shuddering he gazed on her jewelled tiar 
Less bright than her eye, once his loveliest star ; 



LIFEOPALOVER. 45 

And his proud heart swelled high as he thought of 

past hours, 
And remembered their meeting 'mid moonlight and 

flowers. 



But vain such remembrance ; a tyrant's fierce love 

Had broken the bonds young affection had wove. 

The youth to another in sorrow is w ed ; 

In glory the maid as a queen is now led ; 

And soon as a subject he humbly must bow 

To her on whose lips he had breathed his love-vow. 



46 



SCENES IN THE 



SCENE III. 



With black the stately hall was hung ; a cloud was on 

each brow 
That gathered round the council board in solemn 

silence now ; 
And pain and anxious doubt within each noble's bosom 

stirred, 
For well they knew that life and death, now hung 

upon their word. 

With snow-white robes and veiled brow, a female form 

drew nigh ; 
With calm and stately air she stepped, while fixed 

was every eye ; 
And 'mid the dark, stern visaged guards around her, 

she might seem 
The being of a higher sphere, the creature of a 

dream. 



L I F E O F A L O V E R. 47 

Now like a criminal she stood, wliile plainly she could 

trace 
The fearful workings of his soul upon each noble's 

face ; 
Yet w^as she calm, with queenly grace her veil aside 

was thrown — 
Unhappy Percy ! from thy lips burst that convulsive 

groan ? 



Well might his breast with anguish thrill ! few years 

had passed away 
Since that fair form within his arms in love's deep 

fondness lay; 
Since then she moved the stately queen — now the 

disloyal wife, 
For her deep treachery and wrong, must answer with 

her life. 



48 S C E N E S I N T H E 

Yet she was innocent — oh ! none could gaze upon her 

eye 
And deem that sin's dark stain within her bosom's 

dc})ths could lie ; 
But who might dare assert her tmth, when wearied 

with her charms, 
The tyrant had decreed that she should sleep in 

death's cold arms ? 



Now placed 'mid England's haughty peers, must Per- 
cy seal the doom 

That gave the creature of his love to fill a bloody 
tomb; 

Too soon the fatal deed was done — though pure as un- 
sunned snow, 

Yet must the fearful hand of death stamp guilt upon 
her brow. 



LIFEOPALOVER. 49 

He heard no more ; but wildly from the judgment hall 

he rushed, 
Too strong the tenderness within his anguished spirit 

gushed ; 
Till worn by such resistless pangs, o'ermastered by 

the spell 
Of demon thought, upon the earth in senselessness he 

fell. 



Stately and calm the queen had sate, but when she 
heard his cry. 

From her quick heaving bosom burst the half-convul- 
sive sigh. 

One pleading look to Heaven she cast, then spoke in 
murmured tone : 

" Slight is the bitterness of death when spotless fame 
is gone." 



50 LIFEOFALOVER. 

Thus did she die — the young, the fair, the good, com 

pelled to bow, 
Her graceful, swan-hke neck beneath the headsman's 

heavy blow ; 
Her shining locks were dabbled in the blood that 

flowed like rain ; 
But o'er the whiteness of her soul e'en blood could 

leave no stain. 



BOSCOBEL. 



" By the Earl of Derby's directions, Charles went to 
Boscobel, a lone house, on the borders of Staffordshire, 
inhabited by one Penderell, a farmer. To this man 
Charles entrusted himself Penderell took the assistance 
of his four brothers, equally honourable with himself; and 
having clothed the king in a garb like their own, they 
led him into a neighbouring wood, put a bill into his hand, 
and pretended to employ themselves in cutting faggots. 
For a better concealment, he mounted upon an oak, 
where he sheltered himself among the leaves and branches 
for twenty-four hours. He saw several soldiers pass by. 
All of them were intent in search of the king ; and 
some expressed in his hearing, their earnest wishes of 
seizing him." 



Hume's History of England. 



BOSCOBEL. 



'Twas sunset, and the forest trees 

Glowed 'neath the golden sky, 
While evening's soft and dew-fraught breeze 

Awoke its gentle sigh. 

Slowly the toil-worn woodman came ; 

His glance was high and proud ; 
Though 'neath the faggot's painful weight 

His drooping form was bowed. 

At length in weariness he cast 

His burden to the earth ; 
And never such a look could beam 

From one of lowly birth. 



B O S C O B E L. 53 

The peasant's summer toil seemed traced 

Upon his swarthy cheek 'r 
But not more native pride than his 

A kingly eye could speak. 

Aye, majesty upon his brow 

Its signet had imprest ; 
And lofty was the heart that heaved 

Beneath the woodman's vest ; 

For he was one of royal race. 

His heritage a throne ; 
What doth he in the pathless wood. 

Thus peasant-clad and lone ? 

Beside the silver brook he threw 

His wearied limbs and sighed : 

^* Alas ! must this then be the end 

Of Stuart's kingly pride ? 
6* 



54 BOSCOBEL. 

" Woe for the glorious hopes that once 

My lofty heart could fill ! — 
The hand that grasped the warrior's sword, 

Now bears the woodman's bill ; 

" The neck that never bent before, 

Now bows itself to wear 
A burden that, in better days, 

My slaves had scorned to bear. 

" Better, far better 'twere to die 

Beneath the assassin's knife, 
Than thus drag on 'mid toil and care, 

A painful load of hfe." 

Hark to the sound of crashing boughs ! 

A stranger's step is heard ! 
Again the love of life within 

The prince's bosom stirred. 



BOSCOBEL. 

With lithe and active limb he climbed 

An oak's majestic height ; 
And, sheltered 'mid its clustering leaves, 

Looked on a fearful sight. 

A band of fierce-eyed men were there ; 

Their sv^^ords were stained with blood ; 
And they bent to lave their burning brows 

Witliin the chrystal flood. 

Then rose the ribald jest, the laugh, 

The tale of daily guilt ; 
And demon-like, the exulting boast 

Of blood their hands had spilt. 

But still they sought one victim more — ■ 
The Prince ! the Prince ! for him 

With frantic haste they hurry through 
The forest-shadows dim. 



56 BOSCOBEL. 

He heai'd their cries of baffled rage ; 

He saw their eyes' fierce glare ; 
He knew that he was hunted hke 

A wild beast in his lair. 

Then all death's bitterness was his ; 
And down his swart cheek rolled 
Big drops of agony that well 

His soul's dread conflict told. — 

# * * * * 

Night dews upon the green sward shed 
Full many a prepious gem, 

And on the midnight skies was seen 
Heaven's glorious diadem. 

Stillness was on the peaceful earth, 
And beauty filled the grove, 

While nature seemed too fair for aught 
Save gentleness and love. 



BOSCOBEL. 57 

A hallowed sound that stillness broke ; 

For, lowly kneeling there, 
To pitying Heaven the rescued prince 

Poured liis unwonted prayer. 

And oh ! in after years, when placed 

On England's glorious throne, 
The wealth and power of regal state 

Around him richly shone, 

When pleasure o'er his fancy wove 

Her bright and powerful spell, 
Did not the monarch's proud heart bless 

The shades of Boscobel ? 



QUEEN ELIZABETH. 



Sir James Melvll tells us that this princess, the even- 
ing of his arrival in London, had given a ball to her 
court at Greenwich, and was displaying all that spirit and 
alacrity which usually attended her on these occasions : 
but when news arrived of the prince of Scotland's birth, 
all her joy was damped : She sunk into melancholy ; she 
reclined her head upon her arm ; and complained to some 
of her attendants, that the queen of Scots was mother 
of a fair son, while she herself was but a barren stock." 
Hume's History of England, 



NOTE. — A slight, perhaps not unpardonable, liberty has been 
taken with historical fact. The Queen is supposed to be at he? 
toilette, preparing for the ball. 



QUEEN ELIZABETH. 



Coldly she sate, while graceful hands her stately form 

arrayed 
In silken robes, and wreathed her hair in many a 

jewelled braid ; 
But all a woman's vanity was in the vivid glow 
That flattery's magic tones awoke upon her cheek 

and brow. 

Beside her hung the pictured form of Scotland's 

matchless queen — 
Oh ! language would need rainbow hues to paint that 

glorious mien, 
That face which bore the high impress of majesty, 

and yet 
Wliere Love, as if to win all hearts, his fairest seal 

had set. 



QUEEN ELIZABETH. 61 

And bitter was the scorn that filled Elizabeth's proud 

eye, 
As turning from her mirrored self, she saw her rival 

nigh ; 
But transient was the cloud, and soon she bent with 

smiles to greet 
The graceful little page who now was kneeling at her 

feet: 

" Letters from Scotland" — eagerly she grasped the 

the proffered scroll 
Which sharper than a Scorpion's sting could pierce 

her haughty soul ; 
And timidly her maidens shrunk ; for quickly could 

they trace 
Fierce passion in the darkening hue that gathered o'er 

her face. 



62 QUEEN ELIZABETH. 

The white foam stood upon her hp, and wildly beat 

her heart, 
Till its convulsive throbbings rent her 'broidered zone 

apart — 
«' Away !" she cried — awe-struck they stood to hear 

that anguished tone, — 
" Away !" — ^like frighted fawns they fled, and she was 

left alone. 

Oh ! fiercer than the angry burst of ocean's tameless 

wave 
Is woman's soul, when thus unchecked its maddening 

passions rave ; 
But soon the storm was spent, and then like raindrops 

fell her tears. 
While thus the heart-struck queen bewailed her lone 

and blighted years : 



QUEEN ELIZABETH. 63 

" All, all but this I could have borne — methought that 

queenly pride 
Had checked within my woman's breast affection's 

swelling tide ; 
But vainly has my spirit sought 'mid glory to forget 
The youthful dreams whose faded light gleams o'er 

my fancy yet. 

And she has realized those dreams — aye, she whose 

gentle brow, 
In all its graceful loveliness, is turned upon me now — 
Mary of Scotland ! gladly would my lofty heart resign 
The pomps and vanities of power, to win such joy as 

thine. 



64 QUEENELIZABETH. 

Oh ! dearer far than halls of state the humble cottage 

hearth, 
Where childhood's joyous tones awake m all their 

reckless mirth; 
And happier far the meanest churl than she, within 

whose breast. 
Affection's soft and pleading voice by pride must be 

represt. 

A mother's joy ! a mother's pride ! — oh ! what is regal 

power 
To the sweet feelings that are born in such a blissful 

hour? 
Now well art thou avenged, fair queen, of all my 

jealous hate ; 
For thou hast clasped a princely son and I — am 

desolate !" 



THE LAMENT OF COLUMBUS. 



'' Until now I have wept for others ; have pity upon me 
Heaven, and weep for me earth ! In my temporal con- 
cerns, without a farthing to give in offering ; in spiritual 
concerns, cast away here in the Indies ; isolated in my 
misery, infirm, expecting each day will be my last ; sur- 
rounded by cruel savages, separated from the holy sacra- 
ments of the church, so that my soul will be lost if sepa- 
rated here from my body ! Weep for me whoever has 
charity, truth, and justice. I came not on this voyage to 
gain honour or estate ; for all hope of that kind is dead 
within me. 1 came to serve your majesties with a sound 
intention and an honest zeal, and I speak no falsehood." 
Extract of a Letter from Columbus, 

" He looked upon himself as standing in the hand of 
Heaven, chosen from among men for the accomplishment 
of its high purpose. He read, as he supposed, his con- 
templated discovery foretold in holy writ, and shadowed 
forth darkly in the mystic revelations of the prophets. 
The ends of the earth were to be brought together, and 
all nations and tongues and languages united under the 
banners of the Redeemer. 

Irving's Life of Columbus. 



THE LAMENT OF COLUMBUS 



there is a fire 
And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
In its own narrow being ****** 
************* 

And but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core, 
Fatal to him that bears, to all who ever bor6. 

Childe Harold, 



Not mine the dreams, 
The vague chimeras of an earth-stained soul, 
O'er which the mists of error darkly roll ; 

For Heaven-sent beams 
Have chased the gloom that round my soul was flung. 
And pierced the clouds that o'er creation's mysteries 
hung. 



THE LAMENT OP COLUMBUS. 67 

From my youth up 
For this high purpose was I set apart — 
An unbreathed thought, it hved within my heart ; 

And though hfe's cup 
Was filled with all earth's agonies, I quaffed 
Unmurmuring, for that hope could sweeten any draught. 

There were who jeered, 
And laughed to scorn my visionary scheme ; 
They thought yon glorious sun's resplendent beam 

So brightly cheered 
And vivified alone the spot of earth 
Where they, like worms, had lived and grovelled from 
their birth. 

But, called by God, 
From home and friends my willing steps I turned ; 
Led by the light that in my spirit burned, 

Strange lands I trod ; 
And lo ! new worlds uncurtained by my hand 
Before th' admiring East in pristine beauty stand. 



(38 THE LAMENT OF COLUMBUS. 

And what was given 
To recompense the many nameless toils 
That won m}' king a new^ found empire's spoils ? 

The smile of Heaven 
Blessed him w ho sought amid those Eden plains 
To plant the holy cross ; but man s reward was chains. 

Forgot by all, 
Amid a land of savages, I w^ait 
From cruel hostile hands my coming fate ; 

Or else to fall 
Beneath the grief that weighs upon my heart 
While unaneled, unblessed, my spirit spirit must depart. 

IIow^ have I w^ept 
In pity for my followers, when afar 
O'er the wide sea with scarce a guiding star 

Our course we kept ; 
But night W' inds only o'er my grave shall sigh ; 
For, bowled with cruel wrongs, on stranger shores, I die. 



THE LAMENT OF COLUMBUS. 69 

No selfish hope 
Of fame or honour led me here again 
To tread this weary pilgrimage of pain — 

He who must cope 
With treachery and wrong, until the flame 
Of pure ambition dies, has nought to do with fame. 

To serve my king 
I came, with zeal unkindness could not chill ; 
To glorify my God whose holy will 

Taught me to fling 
The veil of error from before my eyes. 
And teach mankind his power as shown 'neath other 

skies. 

Weep for me, earth !. 
Thou whose bright wonders I have oft explored, 
Weep for me Heaven ! to whose proud heights has soared. 

E'en from its birth, 
My strong- winged spirit in its might alone ; 
Lo ! he who gave new worlds now dies unwept, unknown 



THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOENS, 



" On his return from banishment, Camoens was ship- 
wrecked at the mouth of the river Gambia. He saved 
himself by chnging to a plank, and of all his little prop- 
erty succeeded only in saving his poem of the Lusiad, 
deluged with the waves as he brought it in his hand to 
shore." 

Sismondi. 



NOTE. — He is described with his sword in his hand upon the 
authority of his own words : — 

" N'huma mad livros, n'outra, ferro et a^o, 
N'huraa mao sempre a espada, n'outra a pena/' 



THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOENS 



I saw him beat the surges under him, 
And ride upon their backs ; he trod the water, 
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted 
The surge most swoln that met him. — 

Tempest. 



Clouds gathered o'er the dark blue sky, 

The sun waxed dim and pale, 
And the music of the waves was changed 

To the plaintive voice of wail ; 
And fearfully the light'ning flashed 

Around the ship's tall mast, 
While mournfully through the creaking shrouds 

Came the sighing of the blast. 



THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOENS. 73 

With pallid cheek the seamen shrank 

Before the deepening gloom ; 
For they gazed on the black and boiling sea 

As 'twere a yawning tomb ; 
But on the vessel's deck stood one 

With proud and changeless brow ; 
Nor pain, nor terror was in the look 

He turned to the gulf below. 



And calmly to liis arm he bound 

His casket and his sword ; 
Unheeding, though with fiercer strength 

The threatening tempest roared ; 
Then stretched his sinewy arms and cried : 

" For me there yet is hope, 
The limbs that have spurned a tyrant's chain 

With the stormy wave may cope. 

8 



74 THE SHIPWRECK OF C A MO ENS. 

" Now let the strife of nature rage, 

Proudly I yet can claim, 
Where'er the waters may bear me on, 
* . , My freedom and my fame." 

The dreaded moment came too soon, 

The sea swept madly on. 
Till the wall of waters closed around 

And the noble ship was gone. 



Then rose one wild, half-stifled ciy : 

The swimmer's bubbling breath 
Was all unheard, while the raging tide 

Wrought well the task of death ; 
But 'mid the billows still was seen 

The stranger's struggling form ; 
And the meteor flash of his sword might seem 

Like a beacon 'mid the storm. 



THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOENS. 75 



For still, while with his strong right arm 

He buffeted the wave, 
The other upheld that treasured prize 

He would give life to save. 
Was then the love of pelf so strong 

That e'en in death's dark hour, 
The base-born passion could awake 

With such resistless power ? 



No ! all earth's gold were dross to him, 

Compared with what lay hid. 
Through lonely years of changeless woe, 

Beneath that casket's lid ; 
For there was all the mind's rich wealth. 

And many a precious gem 
That, in after years, he hoped might form 

A poet's diadem. 



76 THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOENS. 

Nobly he struggled till o'erspent, 

His nerveless limbs no more 
Could bear him on through the waves that rose 

Like barriers to the shore ; 
Yet still he held his long prized wealth, 

He saw the wished for land — 
A moment more, and he was thrown 

Upon the rocky strand. 



Alas ! far better to have died 

Where the mighty billows roll, 
Than lived till coldness and neglect 

Bowed down his haughty soul : 
Such was his dreary lot, at once 

His country's pride and shame ; 
For on Camoen's humble grave alone 

Was placed his wreath of fame. 



LAMENT OF CAMOENS. 



Donna Catharina de Atayde, a lady of rank and fortune, 
inspired Camoens with a love as deep as it proved last- 
ing. He was her equal in birth, though destitute of 
riches. His poverty however, in the opinion of her par- 
ents, was a crime which could be expiated only by exile ; 
and as she was attached to the court, they found no dif^ 
ficulty in procuring from the sovereign a decree for his 
banishment. This summary mode of proceeding, though 
it separated the lovers, served but to increase their mutual 
affection ; while it brought upon the unhappy Camoens 
misfortune and disgrace. After a lapse of years, during 
which he had suffered penury, shipwreck, and the loss of 
the little property he had accumulated in the East Indies, 
he returned to his native country, broken in health and in 
spirits, only to weep over the grave of his beloved Cath- 
arine, who had cherished her hopeless love for him to the 
last moments of her life. 

See Life of Camoens 
8* ' 



THE LAMENT OF CAMOENS, 

" Oh when in boyhood's happier scene, 

1 pledged my love to thee ; 

How very little did I ween 

My recompense would now have beea 

So much of misery !" 

Camoens, 

!My brow is wasted with its throbs of pain ; 

My limbs have worn the exile's heavy chain ; 

And now, in weariness of heart, I come 

To seek my home — 

Alas ! alas ! what hom e is left me save 

The marble-stone that marks my Catharine's grave ? 

Amid the loneliness of banished years, 
When every hour was traced in bitter tears ; 
When 'gainst itself my bosom learned to war ; 

Thou wert the star 
That o'er my path of dreary darkness shone, 
My own sweet Catharine, and thou too art gone ! 



THE LAMENT OF C A M O E N S. 79 

Too well thy faith, my gentle one, was kept ; 
The love, the perfect tenderness that slept 
Within thy bosom, on itself has preyed ; 

Till thou wert laid 
Within the shelter of earth's quiet breast, 
The sinless victim of a love unblest. 

Still thou didst glory in that love ; thy brow 
With deep affection's brightest flush would glow ; 
And though with bitter tears, when last we met, 

Thy cheek was wet ; 
Yet thou didst bear a spirit high and proud, 
And bid me suffer on with soul unbowed. 

Alas ! I hoped thou wouldst have heard my name 
Linked with the voice of song, the breath of fame : 
I fondly deemed that thou wouldst yet behold 

My name enrolled 
Amid my country's records, while my lyre 
Should wake within all hearts a patriot fire. 



80 THE LAMENT OF CA^IOENS. 

But that is past — once I had wept, and raved, 
And cursed the fate that, through such perils, saved 
Me to lament o'er early-faded dreams ; 

Now reason seems 
Gifted with hfe to add new stings to pain ; 
For frenzy rules my heart, but not my brain. 

No outward sign such mortal woe may speak ; 
No tears, my Catharine, stain my hollow cheek ; 
For ah ! this languid frame, this sinking heart 

Tell me we part 
But for a season ; soon my toil-worn soul 
Shall throw aside this weary life's control. 

Then shall death sanctify my lyre ; and then 
Shall nations praise ' him of the sword and pen ;' 
Then shall my grave become a pilgrim shrine ; 

And then too thine, 
Thus hallowed by a poet's love, shall be 
Sought when forgot are thy proud ancestry. 



THE POOL OF BETHESDA. 

St. John, v. 2 — 9. 



Tranquil Bethesda's waters lay, 
No breeze the surface stirred. 

When sudden through the brightening air 
A rustling wing was heard ; 

Then loudly rose the joyous cry : 

"* The angel of the pool is nigh !" 

Well might they shout, the lame, the blind, 

The fevered who had lain 
Beside Bethesda's healing wave. 

Through many a day of pain, 
They knew it was the destined hour 
When God would show his pitying power. 



THE POOL OF BETIIESDA. 

Then with the selfishness that marks 

Deep misery, they rushed 
Towards the holy fount that now 

With heaven-sent freshness gushed ; 
For he who first should reach its brink, 
New being from its wave might drink. 

But there was one who stirless lay 

Upon his weary couch ; 
Nor sought amid the hurrying crowd 

The troubled waters' touch ; 
Yet in his bitter sigh was heard 
The agony of " hope deferred." 

Almost reproachfully he turned 

His eye upon the stream ; 
When lo ! a gentle voice awoke 

Like music in a dream, 
So soft, so sweet its accents stole — 
" JNfy brother ! wilt thou not be whole V 



THE POOL OF BET HESD A. 83 

Slowly he turned his feeble frame, 

And gazed upon a face 
Of more than woman's loveliness, 

Of more than kingly grace ; 
" Alas ! in vain my will," he cried, 
" I cannot reach Bethesda's tide. 

In more than infant feebleness, 
Through long and changeless years, 

I've lain beside this heahng pool 
And yet no help appears ; 

For ere my palsied limbs draw nigh. 

The hour of mercy is gone by." 

The saviour bent his noble form, 

A heavenly smile passed o'er 
His placid lip, " Arise !" he cried, 

" Go hence and sin no more !" 
Lo ! touched by those almighty hands, 
Once more in manhood's strength he stands. 



84 THE POOL OF BET HESD A. 

Surely this deed of wondrous power 

A truth to us imparts, 
When Heaven's best gifts have not the skill 

To heal our broken hearts, 
May we not look through faith to thee 
Thou first born of eternity ? 



CHRIST IN THE TEMPEST. 

St. Matthew, vin. 24 — 27. 



Midnight was on the mighty deep, 
And darkness filled the boundless sky, 

While 'mid the raging wind was heard 
The sea-bird's mournful cry ; 

For tempest clouds were mustering wrath 

Across the seaman's trackless path. 

It came at length — one fearful gust 
Rent from the mast the shivering sail, 

And drove the helpless bark along, 
The plaything of the gale, 

While fearfully the lightning's glare 

Fell on the pale brows gathered there, 

9 



86 CHRIST IN THE TEMPEST. 

But there was one o'er whose bright face 
Unmarked the hvid hghtnings flashed ; 

And on whose stirless, prostrate form 
Unfelt the sea-spray dashed ; 

For 'mid the tempest fierce and wild, 

He slumbered like a wearied cliild. 

Oh ! who could look upon that face, 
And feel the sting of coward fear ? 

Though hell's fierce demons raged around, 
Yet heaven itself was here ; 

For who that glorious brow could see 

Nor own a present Deity ? 

With hurried fear they press around 
The lowly saviour's humble bed, 

As if liis very touch had power 
To shield their souls from dread ; 

While, cradled on the raging deep, 

He lay in calm and tranquil sleep. 



CHRISTINTHETEMPEST. 87 

Vainly they struggled with their fears, 

But wilder still the tempest woke, 
Till from their full and o'erfraught hearts 

The voice of terror broke : 
" Behold ! we sink beneath the wave, 
We perish, Lord ! but thou canst save." 

Slowly he rose ; and mild rebuke 
Shone in his soft and heaven-lit eye ; 

** Oh ye of httle faith," he cried, 
" Is not your master nigh ? 

Is not your hope of succour just ? 

Why know ye not in whom ye trust ?" 

He turned away, and conscious powder 

Dilated his majestic form, . 
As o'er the boiling sea he bent, 

The ruler of the storm ; 
Earth to its centre felt the thrill. 
As low he murmui'ed : " Peace ! Be still !" 



5 CHRIST IX THE TEMP EST. 

Hark to the burst of meeting waves, 
The roaring of the angry sea ! 

A moment more, and all is hushed 
In deep tranquillity ; 

While not a breeze is near to break 

The min'ored surface of the lake. 

Then on the stricken hearts of all, 
Fell anxious doubt and holy awe, 

As timidly they gazed on him 
Whose will was nature's law : 

" Wiat man is this," they cry, " whose word 

E'en by the raging sea is heard ?" 



TALES 



AND 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES 



9» 



L'IMPROVISATRICE 



•* As in the sweetest bud 
The eating canker dwells, so eating love 
Inhabits in the fairest wits of all," 

Two Gentlemen of Verona. 

Her cheek, wliite as the snowy couch, was prest 
Against her delicate hand ; and her dark eye 
Beamed with unearthly light and purity : 
A hue like that within the rosebud's breast 
Was on her lip, and thus she told the tale 
Of sorrow wliich had made her cheek so pale. 

It was in life's young morn — sixteen short springs 
Had scarce yet bloomed for me ; my soul was filled 
With vague and wandering hopes ; imaginings 
Of some yet unknown bliss my bosom thiilled : 



92 

I dreamed of some one loving and beloved, 
Though yet unseen, whose gentle whispers moved 
Like music o'er my spirit, till my heart 
Was all attuned to tenderness and love.— 
It needed but a master's hand to rove 
Amid its chords, and teach them to impart, 
A melody of magic power to bless, 
Whose very echoes had been happiness — 
Then, then 'twas I first saw him — the dark eye 
Where dwelt the pride of intellect, the high 
And snowy forehead, the lip full and bright, 
The beaming smile like heaven's own sunny light. 
These were the charms that met my gaze, yet oh ! 
'Twas not alone the beauty of his brow 
That won my heart ; it was the mind that dwelt 
Within his form before whose shrine I knelt. 
Yet I knew not I loved him — from the time 
When I first saw him, and love's passion flower 
Was budded in my young heart's sunny clime. 
Until the sad and well remembered hour 



l'improvisatrice. 93 

That saw its full and perfect blossoming 

In ripened beauty, I knew not how well 

My tenderness had nursed the fragile thing. 

Alas ! his presence was a mighty spell 

'Gainst which I could not strive : his look, his smile . 

Had ever power my sadness to beguile ; 

A glance from his all speaking eye at will 

The troubled waves of painful thought could still. — 

He was unhappy but I knew not why ; 

It was enough for me that the deep sigh 

Oft heaved his bosom, and the darkening shade 

Oft crost his brow, and bade his sWeet smile fade. 

Why lengthen out the tale ? — ^months rolled away, 
Yet I was happy, and each changing day 
Brought me new pleasure ; for I still could see 
The being dearer than the world to me. 
But now we soon must sever — I should be 



94 l'improvisatrice. 

Forgot, or only claim a passing thought 
Although his eveiy look and tone were fraught 
With sad remembrance for my after years 
Of pain and sorrow, loneliness and tears — 

Once — 'twas in twilight's hour — we sate alone 
Each heart responding to a saddened tone. 
I had been weeping bitterly, and now 
One hand was prest against my throbbing brow, 
The other lay in his — I had nor power 
Nor will to draw it thence — ^then bending o'er 
He spoke in gentlest words, and, with a smile 
Full of calm tenderness, he sought to guile 
]My mournful feelings, and I felt his arm 
An instant closely clasped around my form ; 
I felt his lip upon my burning cheek — 
The first, first kiss ! I sprang from liis embrace 
To hide my tearful and aye — happy face ; 
A moment past and then — oh ! words were weak 
My bosom's thrilling agony to speak : 



L ' I M P R O V I S A T R I C E. 95 

Then first mine eyes were opened, and I knew 
How dearly my heart held him, and then too 
Came the conviction that I loved in vain— 
I dare not dwell on this — too much of pain 
Lies in the thought — on the next night we parted, 
But stranger eyes were near, and cold ones stood 
Around us, and I stilled the fearful flood 
Of wild emotion — though half broken-hearted, 
My voice ne'er faltered, and my clouded eye 
Was tearless ; if the deep drawn struggling sigh 
Burst from my lip, 'twas all unheeded while 
My changeless cheek still wore a careless smile. 

We parted ne'er to meet as we had met — 
I knew too well he loved me not, and yet 
'Twas sweet to hear the music of his voice, 
And 'neath his smiles to feel my soul rejoice. 
Time passed away, yet did my bosom cherish 
Its fond idolatry — aye — love may may perish 



96 l'improvisatrice. 

When nurst 'mid pleasures, but the love that springs 

From sorrow, fed by hopelessness, still clings 

To the young heart unchanged through every change, 

No grief can chill it, and no time estrange ; 

It lives until it wastes the heart away — 

And such was mine — why do I thus delay? 

There was a young fair girl with dove-like eyes 
And voice as gentle as the southwind's sighs ; 
And when long months had passed away, and I 
Again beheld him, he was seated nigh 
That gentle girl ; methought his bright eye burned 
More brightly when upon her face it turned. 
'Twas said he sought her for his bride, and she 
Returned no answering fondness — could it be 
That he to one who loved him not, had given 
The tenderness which would have been my heaven ? 
I never met him save when at her side, 
And then my heart swelled high with woman's pride. 



l' I MP RO VIS A TRICE. 97 

And hid my woman's love : at length I grew 

Reckless of every thing in life — a new 

And fearful demon haunted all my hours, 

And charged with venom all my path's few flowers. 

And then — then — all grew darkness — ask me not 

What cast that shadow o'er my wayward lot — 

'Twas my own folly — madness — but no more — 

Memory extends a barren wildness there, 

And life would fail me ere I could tell o'er 

My bosom's agony, my heart's despair — ■ 

But soon a sudden gleam of light dispelled 

The darksome cloud, and then my proud heart swelled 

With loftier feelings — I had sometimes strung 

My humble lyre and in low accents su?ig 

Of love and sorrow— now they b^e me sweep 

Its chords with bolder hand, ^lor let them sleep 

In silence ; and some saif? that on my brow 

Ere long the poet's garland might be twined. 

From that hour I was changed — I sought not now " 

To die and leave no memory behind ; 

10 



98 



LI3IPROVISATRICE. 



I bade my sleeping intellect unbind 
Its listless pinions, and with lofty flight 
Soar 'mid Imagination's realms of light — 
I taught my lyre with Fancy's flame to glow, 
And the soft notes in loftier strains to flow ; 
While gay ones marvelled I could spend my dayi 
In painful study — they knew not how strong 
The impulse was — 'twas not mere love of prais 
That bade me seek the highly gifted song — 
Ah no ! I hoped the time would come when " 
Would listen to my melancholy lays- 



ne when he 

- f 



I hoped that he, so loved though lost, would Jee 
Gladly, some future day, my humble name f 
Placed high up<^n the glorious lists of fame,^ 
And that " the swee^. surprise of sudden joy" 
Would fill his generous h^art, when he beheld 
The reckless girl, whom he so long had held 
To be the sport of levity, the toy 
Of wayward feeling, teach her soar^g soul 
To spurn the fetters of the world's controul : 



\ 



LIMPROVISATRICE 



And with the pride of genius bear away 
Upon her woman's brow the deathless bay- 
Were these hopes bhghted ? — 



99 



Since I first saw him five long years have past 
I And I am dying — yet 'tis not the hand 

Of grief that o'er my brow this shade has cast : 
I long have ceased to weep — an icy band 
Seems drawn about my heart — I cannot weep, 
But now upon my lone couch I could lie, 
As calmly as an infant turns to sleep 
Upon his gentle mother's breast — and die. — 



THE MOTHER. 



To aid thy mind's developement, — to watch 
Thy dawn of httle joys, — to sit and see 
Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch 
Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee ! 
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, 
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — 
This, it should seem was not reserved for me." 

Childe Harold. 



Hers was no brilliant beauty ; a pale tint, 
As if a rose-leaf there had left its print, 
Was on her cheek ; her brow was high and fair, 
Crossed by light waving bands of chestnut hair ; 
Her eyes were cast down on the lovely boy, 
Beside whose couch she knelt ; but such calm joy, 



r H rj 31 O T II E R . 101 

Such beautiful tranquillity as dwelt 
Upon her features, none have ever felt 
Save a fond mother : her tall graceful form 
Was bending o'er him, and one round white arm 
Supported his fair head, while her hand prest 
Her bosom, as she feared that he might start 
To feel the quickened pulses of her heart. 
Yet still she drew him nearer to her breast 
Almost unconsciously. At length, he woke, 
And the soft sounds that from his sw^eet lips broke, 
Were like the gentle murmurings of a brook 
Along its pebbly channel ; but her look 
Told joy that lay too deep for smiles or tears : 
Twas a strange happiness where hopes and fears 
Were wildly blended, yet 'twas happiness ; 
For well she knew that nought on. earth could bless 
A woman's heart like the deep, deathless love 
A mother feels : all other joys may prove 
But sin or vanity, this, this alone 

10* 



102 THE MOTHER. 

With perfect peace and purity is fraught. 
On the fair tablet of a mothers thought 
There is no stain of passion ; 'tis the one, 
Sole trace of that pure joy man's knowledge cost, 
Sole remnant of the heaven our parents lost. 

When first man from his paradise was driven, 
Woman's sweet wiles and witcheries were given 
To cheer him through life's dreary wilderness ; 
But what was left her erring heart to bless ? — 
She once had loved him as a being sent 
From Heaven in God's own image, yet he went 
Astray e'en at her bidding — loved she less ? 
No, but her adoration now was o'er ; 
And earthly passions, sinless now no more, 
Absorbed her heart while every pang or sigh 
That burst from him, thrilled her with agony. 
His stern reproach too she endured unmoved 
And patient, for she feh how much she loved. 



THE MOTHER. 103 

Then to repay her sufFerings, and atone 
For man's unkmdness, seeds of joy were sown 
Within her heart : a mother's love was given, 
And this repaid her for the loss of Heaven. 

Oh ! but to watch the infant as he lies 
Pillowed upon his mother's breast ; liis eyes 
Fixed on her face, as if his only light 
On earth beamed from that face with fondness bright ; 
Or to gaze on him sleeping, while his cheek 
Moves with her heart's glad throbbings that bespeak 
Feeling too full for words ; to see him break 
The silken chains of slumber and awake 
All light and beauty, while he lisps her name 
" Mother !" although his childish lips can frame 
No other sound — oh ! who, with joy like this. 
Could ask from Heaven a dearer, deeper bliss ? 

Again I saw the mother bending o'er 
The pillow of her babe ; but joy no more 



104 THE MOTHER. 

Was pictured in her face ; her sunken cheek, 
Her faltering accents, tremulous and weak, 
Told a sad tale : she had hung o'er that couch 
For many a weary night, and every touch 
Of his thin, wasted hand seemed to impart 
A tlirilling sense of pain to her young heart : 
Yet deemed she not that death could now destroy 
So bright a blossom as her darling boy. 
She feared not that ; she felt she could not bring 
Aught to relieve him ; this to her was death. — 
But when at last she felt his feverish breath 
Pass o'er her brow, the deadly withering 
Of early hope that young hearts only know, 
First taught her all a youthful mother's woe. 
Oft would she check the bursting sob of pain 
When, as she marked the evening planets wane, 
She thought that though another day had past. 
Another came as mournful as the last ; 
And oftentimes the bright big tear unbid 
Would gather slowly 'neath her long-fringed lid ; 



THE MOTHER. 105 

As rain-drops mark the coming storm whose shock 
Shall blast the wild flower and its sheltering rock 
In the same ruin — but each coming day- 
She saw him wasting. One eve as he lay 
Within iier arms, the moonbeams shining bright 
Gave to his pallid face a ghastly light : 
She gazed on him — she bent to hear his breath — 
His heart tlii'obbed faintly — then — she gazed on Death ! 



/ 



CLARA 



" You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings 
Follow such creatures." 

Henry Fill. 

She had sprung up like a sweet wild flower hid 
From common eyes, in some lone dell, amid 
The light and dews of heaven ; and ne'er was found 
A purer bud on earth's unhallowed ground. 
Her face was fair, but the admiring eye 
Loved less its beauty than its pm^ity ; 
No cloud e'er darkened o'er that placid brow ; 
No cai-e e'er dimmed her bright smile's smmy glow ; 
A gentle heart that ne'er had dreamed of sin 
Or suffering, shone her dove-like eyes within ; 



CLARA. 107 

And the high hope that with such calm joy stirs 
The trusting soul — the Christians hope was hers ; 
'Twas this that gave such sweetness to a mien 
So softly gay, so peaceful and serene ; 
Calm without apathy ; as woman mild, 
Yet innocent and playful as a child. 

But in her heart there was one unbreathed thought 
With all a woman's holiest fondness fraught : 
Hers was not wild, fierce passion, such as glows 
In untamed hearts, but the calm love that grows 
Within the soul like an expanding flower, 
Breathing its perfume o'er each passing hour : 
From infancy it grew. — The graceful boy 
To whose embrace she clung with childish joy, 
And on whose breast her head had oft reposed 
When weariness her infant eyes had closed, 
Was still as dear to her young bosom now. 
Though time had written man upon his brow. 



108 CLARA, 

There was no shame in such a love concealed 
In her heart's quiet depths, or but revealed 
By the slight tremor or the blush that came 
O'er cheek and bosom when she heard his name. 

And did not Henry look with loving eye 
On the fair orphan who so tenderly 
Cherished his image ? — long he vainly strove 
To check the feeling fe dared not call love ; 
He thought of earher days when she had smiled 
In his encircling arms, a reckless child ; 
Could she forget the difference in theu' years 
And listen to a lover's hopes and fears 
From one so much her elder ? — he might claim 
A sister's tenderness ; but the pure flame 
Of deep and deathless love could never be 
Kindled by him in its intensity. 
Thus deemed he in his hopelessness ; but vain 
His efforts to repress the thrilling pain 



CLARA, 109 

That tilled his heart, while thinking of the hour 
When he should see his loved and cherished flower 
Breathing its fragrance in another's bower. 

One balmy summer eve, with him she roved 

Through many a greenwood haunt they long had loved; 

When as they gazed upon the glorious west, 

Dark clouds obscured the bright sun's glowing crest ; 

And through the forest trees the wind's wild cry 

Rang as of some strong man in agony. 

A storm was coming, and while, pale with fear, 

She clung to him, his own proud castle near 

Offered them shelter — in his arms he bore 

The maiden to those halls oft trod before 

In childhood's day ; and while the tempest's strife 

Blackened the scene so late with gladness rife, 

His heart was filled with joy ; for maiden pride 

Was hushed by fear, and Clara dared to hide 

Her face upon his breast, while the red fire 

Flashed from dark clouds careering in their ire 

11 



110 CLARA. 

Like angry spirits — ere an hour had past. 
The storm was spent, and its terrific blast 
Hushed into stillness ; but before they turned 
To leave the spot, the restless thoughts that burned 
In Heniy's breast, were breathed o'er Clara's cheek, 
And silence answered more than words could speak. 

And they were wed — oh, gentle Love, how dear 
Is thy sweet influence when thou thus dost rear 
Amid our household gods thy sacred shrine, 
And givest thy torch upon our hearths to shine, 
Folding in calm repose thy radiant wings, 
And gathering round our homes earth's purest, loveliest 
things ! I 



EDGAR AND ADA. 



*' The wretched are the faithful." 

Byron. — Lament of Tasso. 

He was all manly beauty, and she seemed 
As fau' a form as ever poet dreamed 
'Mid early love's imaginings ; with eyes 
Dove-like and beautiful, and lofty brow 
White as the snow on Alpine summits Hes ; 
Upon her cheek there was a brilliant glow 
Like young Aurora's earliest, brightest blush, 
Deepening at her sweet lip, till it became 
The crimson tint of summer eve ; — ^the flush 
Of changeful feeling, hope, or joy or shame 



112 



EDGAR AND ADA. 



Gave sweetness to a face that else had been 
Too samely beautiful : — none e'er had seen 
Her innocent smile but paused to look again^ 
She seemed so pure, so free from every stain 
Of earthly feeling ; and young Edgar's heart 
Scarce trusted its own bliss when in her face 
/ He read (what nought save looks can e'er impart) 
The love, the tenderness that steals new grace 
From maiden bashfulness ; — aye, low his proud 
And lofty spirit at her shrine was bowed. 
The guileless fancies of unsullied youth ; 
Its high-souled aspirations after truth ; 
The innocent wishes vague and undefined ; 
The briUiant visions of a lofty mind ; 
The hope that only on fame's mountain height 
His eagle spirit e'er should rest its flight ; 
All these were his ; and when the traitor Love 
Around that spirit's snowy pinions w^ove 
His silken bonds, in vain might he essay 
Its heaven-ward course 'mid myrtle groves to stay 



EDGARANDADA. IT 



The soft, light fetters only seemed to bring 
Renewed freshness to each radiant wing. 



Yet all his soul was hers ; and what did she 

With such a prize ? Did she not joy to see 

Its proud upspringing ? Did she not aspire 

To catch a spark of the ethereal fire ? 

And did not her less powerful mind reflect 

A brightness from his vivid intellect ? 

No ! all too glorious was the dazzling blaze 

Of genius placed before her timid gaze ; 

She shrank before its brilliancy, content 

To find in vanity her element. 

His love for her was pure as it was deep ; 

Not like the shallow brook whose wavelets break 

When the light breezes o'er its surface sweep, 

But like the mighty ocean that can wake 

Only to brave the tempest. 

But when all thought him happiest, — for the time 

When he might claim his promised bride drew near — 

11* 



114 EDGAR AND ADA. 

(Alas ! they know not the heart's changeful clime 
Who only see its summer flowers) a shade 
Gathered upon his brow ; he seemed to wear 
Less joyous smiles than he was wont — 'twas said 
That she was faithless ; but he breathed not one 
Unkind reproach, the soul of life was gone 
From him forever ; and nought now was left 
Save a wide waste of all its bloom bereft. 
The idol he had worshipped was o'erthrown ; 
Its ruined fane was in his heart alone. 
Yet he could not believe that she would brook 
Another's tenderness — a little while 
And she was wedded ; he beheld her smile 
Upon another with the same sweet look 
That once had greeted him : then first he knew 
His bosom's hopeless misery ; then too 
He felt how surely she had withered all 
His spirit's high- wrought energies ; in vain 
He strove his hopes of glory to recall — 
^Alas ! there was no guerdon now to gain. 



EDGAR AND ADA. 115 

lie deemed hope dead within his heart, and then 
Alas ! he plunged amid the haunts of men. 
Aye, that proud heart so full of holy feeling 
Was joined unto the world — the stain of earth 
So slowly o'er his guileless bosom steahng, 
Though hid beneath the sparkling flowers of mirth, 
A darker, deeper madness could impart 
Than even grief had left within his heart. 
His spirit's plumes were sullied ; but not long 
He paused to hear soft pleasure's syren song ; 
Not long his noble nature thus could bear 
The joys where innocence might find no share. 

There was a gentle girl for whom he felt 
A brother's tenderness, and she knew well 
His wrongs and sufferings : often had she knelt 
Beside him when she marked the fearful swell 
Of the blue veins upon his brow, which told 
That thought again her record had unrolled; 



116 EDGAR AND ADA, 

And she alone his sadness could beguile 

With her soft voice, her sweetly pensive smile ; 

Or soothe with tears she sought not to repress. 

She spoke to him of peace (for happiness 

She Ivnew he hoped no longer) and she gave 

Fresh motive for exertion — day by day 

Her gentle Idndness won its silent way, 

Until he felt that he again could brave 

The world's wild storms. — Affection's deepest Stream 

Was sealed within his bosom ; but the beam 

Of kind benevolence across it glowed 

Until it seemed as though again it flowed 

Unfettered ; but such thought indeed were vain — 

Nought now on earth could e'er unloose that chain ; 

His lip again a tranquil smile might wear, 

But memoiy's waste was ruled by fell despair. 

Yet Ada felt that deep and passionate love 
Was in her heart ; at first she vainly strove 



EDOAR AND ADA. 117 

Against its power ; she knew she ought to fly ; 
Yet what kind gentle one would then be nigh 
To watch o'er Edgar's melancholy mood, 
And save him from the heart's dread solitude ? — 
Oh ! man can never know what treasures lie 
Within the quiet depths of woman's soul ; 
How strong the fortitude that dares to die 
E'en with a broken heart, yet can control 
Each painful murmur. — ^Ada knew she ne'er 
Could be aught than his sister though so dear 
Her innocent heart had held him, — a few years 
Of mingled joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, 
And then they must be parted, he would wear 
Upon his brow the laurel's fadeless bloom, 
While her heart, worn by many a secret tear, 
Would find its shelter in the silent tomb, 

Days passed away and Ada's bloom had fled, 
She felt that soon the city of the dead 



118 EDGAR AND ADA. 

Would greet her as its habitant ; and yet 

Her gentle bosom breathed not one regret ; 

She feared if she should live and he depart, 

Grief might reveal the secret of her heart ; 

But novv^ while she could hsten to his voice 

Whose silver tones bade her sad soul rejoice ; 

Now while to her his tenderness w^as given, 

Death was the dearest boon she sought from Heaven, 

Yet e'en this consolation was denied ; 

For accident revealed what maiden pride 

Had closely hidden ; — pangs that long had slept 

In Edgar's breast were roused: — " Havel doomed thee, 

Mine innocent child, to hopeless misery ?" 

He clasped her to liis bosom and they wept, 

Bitterly w^ept together, but she rose 

As though the fountains of her weeping froze 

E'en m their flow, her arms were round liim thrown, 

One kiss upon liis brow and she was gone. — 



EDGAR AND ADA. 119 

Days, weeks, passed on ; but from that time he ne'er 
Had seen sweet Ada ; many a bitter tear 
Had he in secret shed, when he was told 
That she was dying ; ere that heart was cold 
Which had loved him so well, ere she was free 
From worldly thoughts, she prayed his face to see. 
He came — she sate beside the latti e where 
The jasmine twined its bridal blossoms fair, 
A transient blush suffused her cheek, she sighed : 
" Think, like this flower thine own dear Ada died, 
It felt no lightning-stroke, no tempest's strife, 
But withered 'neath the sun that gave it life." 
She laid her head upon his breast — life's last 
And happiest moment — then — her spirit pass'd 1 



MINA 



" Nature is fine in love ; and when 'tis fine 

It sends some precious instance of itself 

After the thing it lovts." 

Hamlet. 

It was the place of tombs ; the dark leaved yew 
And bending willow their sad shadows threw 
Across the lowly graves ; no sound was heard 
Save the soft murmur of a rippling stream, 
Or the light carol of the lark that stirred 
The balmy air with music : it might seem 
That all things slept in some dehcious dream. 
There was a hillock decked with many a wreath 
Of young spring-flowers, but they had faded 'neath 
The morning sun like young hopes pure and bright 
Withering beneath the look that gave them light. 



M I N A . 121 

And to that grave there came the form of one 
Who had been beautiful ; but sickness now 
And sorrow too had marked her for their own, 
And stolen the joyous beauty from her brow. 
On the damp grass she many a night had lain, 
The star-gemmed heavens her only canopy, 
And this had dimmed the lustre of her eye, 
And faded her young cheek ; she came again 
To deck with fresh culled flowers the lonely spot 
She loved so well ; she sighed : " sure these are not 
The flowers I braided — ah! the cruel sun 
Has touched them, and their loveliness is gone." 
She threw herself beside the grave and wreathed 
The dewy flowers, while mournfully she breathed 
A low and broken melody; 

Aye, flowers may glow 
In new-born beauty, and the rosy spring 
To deck the earth her sparkling wreaths may bring ; 

But where art thou? 



122 M I N A . 

The early bloom 
Of flowers in freshest hifancy I wreathe, 
Their transient life of fragi-ancy to breathe 

Upon thy tomb. 

And I have sought 
The lowly violet, that in shade appears 
Shrinking from view, hke young love's tender fears, 

"With sweetness fraught. 

And rosebuds too. 
Crimson as young Aurora's blush, or white 
As woman's cheek when touched by sorrow's blight, 

O'er thee I strew. 

And flowers that close 
Their buds beneath the sun, but pure and pale 
Ope their sweet blossoms 'neath the dewy veil 

That evening throws. 



M I N A . 123 

The fragrant leaves 
Of the white lily too with these I twine, 
The drooping hly that seems born to shine 

Where true love grieves. 

But what doth this 
Half- withered bud amid my blooming wreath? 
Already its young charms have faded 'neath 

The sun's warm kiss. 

Ah! tliis shall lie 
Upon my bosom — it is fit to strew 
Such blighted flowers o'er her who only knew 

To love and die ! — 

There will be none 
To deck thy grave with flowers and chant for thee 
These snatches of remembered melody 

When I am gone ; 



124 MINA. 

But thou shalt have 
A gift more pure than e'en the buds I fling — 
A broken heart — my latest offering 

Upon thy grave. 

# * # # She laid 

Upon the verdant flower- wreathed turf her head ; 
The breeze amid her long, dark ringlets played, 
And thus she slept— the dying with the dead. — 

Hers was no wondrous history: should we seek 
The cause that fades the bloom of woman's cheek, 
'Twould oft be found a tale like this — she loved 
As woman ever loves — undoubtingly — 
His rich-toned voice o'er her young pulses moved 
Like the soft breath of summer airs that sigh 
Upon the wind-god's harp — his glorious eye 
To her was as the sunbeam from on high 
Nursing the passion-flowers within her heart, 
And teaching them their fragrance to impart. 



MINA. 125, 

He knew not a!I her love — she taught the deep 
And strong emotions of lier breast to sleep 
Beneath mirth's semblance, and whene'er she heard 
His footstep, though her feelings wildly stirred, 
The trembling of her downcast lid ; her cheek 
Suffused with blushes — these alone could speak 
Iler woman's fondness. — Ernold toyed awhile 
With the fond heart whose eveiy throb was fraught 
With tenderness for him ; and then the smile 
Of one more fair claimed all the truant's thought. 
Aye, thus man values woman's heart — a toy 
That may amuse his changeful hours of joy, 
Or charm his bosom's waywardness, then cast 
Aside, or broken when the mood is past. 

'Twere vain to tell of Mina's hopes and fears, 
Her seeming gayety and secret tears ; 
Woman too oft is doomed such pangs to prove, 
And man— why should he know of woman's love ? 

12* 



126 MINA. 

Too soon the loved, the faithless one was wed 

To one so beautiful she seemed to make 

A very heaven about her, Euid to take 

Captive those hearts whence feeling long had fled ; 

Yet she was cold to him as is the snow 

On mountain tops — she should have been as pure — 

And silently he bade his heart endure 

To see the same cold smiles upon her brow, 

Like sunbeams glittering o'er a frozen lake ; 

At length came one with magic power to wake 

The beautiful statue into life, and she 

Who should have shared her husband's destiny, 

Unchanged through every change, was faithless ! — gave 

Her name, her honour to become the slave 

Of sinful passion. — From that fatal day 

Grief wore the wretched Emold's life away ; 

And when pain thus had wrung him, and decay 

Had marked him for the grave — ^remembering nought 

Save that he now was wretched, Mina sought 



MIN A 



127 



To soothe his misery ; and oft she led 
His trembling footsteps to the river side, 
Upon whose green bank they were wont to tread 
When life was brighter, and whene'er he tried 
To banish sad remembrance, she would smile 
And seek with cheerful words his grief to 'guile. 
Death came at length — she lived to dress his tomb 
With sweet spring flowers, but pain had stolen her 

bloom ; 
She knew that she was djang — one bright mom 
She went again the green grave to adorn, 
But she returned not — she had calmly laid 
Her cheek upon the grassy mound ; a braid 
Of fresh buds in her hand, and thus beside 
Her lover's tomb, her lastest breath was sighed. 



THE SHEPHERD BOY. 



" Ma pur si aspre vie, ne si selvagge 
Cercar non so ch' Amor non venga sempre 
Ragionando con meco ed io con lui." 

Petrarca, 

He was a slender boy ; his coal black hair 

Hung in tliick masses o'er his brow so fair. 

His cheek was pale and sunken, and the light 

Of his dark eye seemed as it had been bright, 

Though now its flashing glance was quenched in tears, 

And grief seemed preying on his early years. 

O'erspent with toil he stood — liis native land 

Lay far beyond the ken of that low vale 

Whose gentle breezes now his hot cheek fanned ; 

And when he strove to tell his simple tale, 

It was in broken accents, but with tone 

Sweet as love's whisper: " he was all alone 



THE SHEPHERD BOY* 129 

In the wide world, and now he sought a home 
Where coldness or univindness couid not come. 

Four changeful seasons now had rolled away 
Since first Celesto dwelt witliin that vale> 
An humble shepherd boy, and yet no ray 
Of joy e'er visited his cheek so pale* 
He shunned the crowd of gay ones that were met 
Upon the green at summer eve ; nor yet 
Did he e'er seek to win a maiden's smile : 
It seemed that nought on earth had power to 'guile 
His wretchedness. He loved alone to sit 
And watch the bright and various clouds that flit 
Across the sunset sky, or, stretched beneath 
The fragrant orange groves, to list the breath 
Of Zephyr sweeping o'er the leaves that sigh 
In answer and return sweet melody. 
Once, and once only, did the sad boy quit 
His lonely haunts, and join the festive throng ; 
AikI then he seized the light guitar and wove, 



130 THE SHEPHERD BOY. 

In broken strains, a melancholy song 
Breathing of blighted hope and hapless love : 

,/They called her fair ; and she oft had heard 
The voice of song in the moon-lit grove ; 
But oh ! how wildly her pulses stirred 
When first she bent to the voice of love 1 

Like Heaven's sweet breath o'er the win-god's l}Te, 
It woke its tones in her guileless heart ; 

But scarcely can Heaven itself inspire 
Such joy as dwells in love's witching art. 

To him who wakened each sleeping string 
She gave her heart ; but be this the token 

How well he valued the fragile tiling — 

The music has ceased ! — the heart is broken ! 

There was a j^oung fau' girl with sunny brow 
And cheek where smiles were ever wont to glow — 



THE SHEPHERD BOY. 131 

The gayest 'mid the gay ones, but her eye 

Lost its bright gladness, and despondency 

Marked her once laughing face ; her faded cheek 

Was pale, save when she heard Celesto's name, 

And then quick deepening blushes o'er it came, 

Those tell-tales that a maiden's fondness speak. 

The boy knew that she loved him, but he felt 

That none w^ould love him long ; for grief had dwelt 

Within his heart until it wore away 

His life. Although his eye and cheek grew bright, 

Yet 'twas the soul's last effort to give light 

And beauty to the wasting frame's decay, 

And steal from death part of its agony. 

Soon, very soon the boy knew he must die, 

And then he sought the pale girl, and unrolled 

The tablets of sad memory ; then he told 

His mournful tale. From that time, though the trace 

Of tears was often left on Annette's face, 

Yet was her spirit calm. 



132 THE SHEPHERD BOY. 

At length, one morn, 
In that bright season when earth seems new born, 
She sought the spot Celesto loved to tread ; 
And there she saw the fair boy lying — dead ! 
They came to robe him in funereal vest, 
And then they found a maiden's snowy breast 
Beneath the shepherd's coat. The imaged form 
Of one whose eye possessed the serpent's charm 
Hung from her neck — a dark browed cavalier — 
They sought from sad Annette the tale to hear, 
But she was silent : thus by all unknown 
The hapless maiden lies. A solitary stone 
Graved with the name Celesta, marks her tomb, 
The onlv relic of her mournful doom. 



THE BRIDE, 



Say as ye point to my early tomb 

hac 

Am 



That the lover was dear tho' the bridegroom had come. 



" But neither bended knees, pure hands held up, 
Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears, 
Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire." 

Shakspeare, 



The lady sat in sadness ; her fair lid 
Shrouding her eye's dark beauty ; while soft hands 
Were wreathing her thick tresses, and amid 
The glossy ringlets twining costly bands 
Of snowy pearls ; but oft the deep-drawn sigh 
Heaved the rich robe that folded o'er her breast ; 
And when she raised her head, within her eye 

Sparkled a tear which would not be represt. 

13 



134 THE BRIDE. 

She glanced towards the mirror, and a smile 
Crossed her sweet lip — it was a woman's feeling 
Of mingled pride and pleasure, even while 
The blight of sorrow o'er her heart was stealing: 
Yet as she gazed she thought of by-past hours, 
When she was wont, within the orange bowers. 
To sit beneath the moonlight ; and the arm 
Of one she loved was folded round her form, 
While to his throbbing breast she oft would cling. 
And playfully her loosen'd tresses fling, 
Light fetters, o'er his neck ; then, with bright cheek, 
Smile when he gtrove his tenderness to speak. 

Another change came o'er her face — she turned 
And raised a chrystal cup that near her stood ; 
Upon her cheek a deeper crimson burned, 
And to her eye there rushed a fearful flood 
Of wild emotion ; eagerly she quaffed. 
With trembling lip, the strangely blended draught ; 



THE BRIDE. 



135 



And then in low and faltering accents cried : 
" Am I not now a gay and happy bride ?'* 

vt- vr ^ Tt- ^ T?» 

She stood before the altar ; her pale brow 

Uplifted to the holy cross. The sun 

Shed through the painted window a deep glow 

Upon her cheek ; and he w ho thus had won 

Her hand without her heart, was at her side ; 

The dark-robed priest too ; but as less allied 

To earth than heaven, she stood — when called to speak 

The sad response, her voice had grown so weak 

She scarce could utter it ; her fragile form 

Shook with convulsed emotion ; but the arm 

Of her stern sire supported her ; her head 

Fell helpless on his breast, and she was w^ed. 

The bridegroom pressed his lip to her pale face ; 

She shrunk from him as loathing his embrace ; 

Then starting up with fearful calmness said : 

" Father, I promised ; have I not obeyed ? — 



136 THE BRIDE. 

But there is yet another vow unpaid ; 
For I am the betrothed of Death, and lo I 
The bridegroom waits his promised bride, e'en now. 
Our nuptial torch shall be the glow-worm's light ; 
Our bridal bed the grave — Oh ! it is sweet 
To think that there no grief can throw its blight 
O'er young affection — yes e'en I can greet 
The marriage cup when dmgged with aconite." 
She trembled ; would have fallen ; but again 
Her haughty father's arm was near — her breath 
Grew fainter; and her breast heaved as with pain ; 
Lowly she muraiured: "Let my bridal wreath 
Lie on my bier — he deems me faithless — now 
Let him bend o'er tliis pale and stony brow, 
And learn how well I loved" — one fleeting spot 
Of crimson crossed her cheek, and she was not. 



THE LONELY ONE 



" What deep wounds ever closed without a scar 1 
The heart bleeds longest, and but heals to wear 
That which disfigures it ; and they who war 
With their own hopes, and have been vanquished, bear 
Silence but not submission." 

Childe Harold. 

Oh ! hers was not such love as worldlings feel ; 

But an intense and passionate devotion 

Pure as an infant thought was in her heart. 

Yet she had none of woman's charms ; the low 

And gentle voice ; the full bright lip ; the eye 

All light and beauty ; these were not for her. 

But on her spirit genius poured its rays ; 

And in her eye the pride of intellect 

13* 



138 THE LONELY ONE. 

Was visibly enthroned ; yet proved she not 
Herself a mere, mere woman, when she gave 
Her heart to man's control ? No, he was one 
Whom not to love had almost been a crime : 
It seemed that heaven had formed him to be loved 
E'en as itself was worshipped ; well did she 
Obey its will — he was the life, the soul 
Of her existence ; and she poured forth all 
The richest fulness of her untouched heart 
As incense on his shrine, e'en though she knew 
Its sweetness would be wasted. Hopelessly 
She gave it ; for she knew he looked on her 
With kindness, friendship, every thing but love. 
And yet she murmured not ; could she repine 
When she received a brother's tenderness ? 
She turned from scenes of gaiety ; for there 
She could not think of him ; and gifted ones 
Oft sought her love as 'twere a precious thing. 
But how could one who worshipped the bright sun. 
Pay the same homage to the meaner stars ? 



THE LONELY ONE. 139 

She gave herself to loneliness ; a life 
Of self-devotion to her hopeless love 
Was dearer to her than all earthly joy. 

At length the hour she long had looked for, came 
And he was wed. She knew the very hour 
That gave him to another. It were vain 
To paint the fearful conflict of her heart ; 
She knew he would be wretched if he dreamed 
Of her deep sorrow ; and this gave her strength 
To conquer woman's weakness : when she next 
Beheld him he was near his youthful bride ; 
Calmly she met his proffered hand, and looked 
With smiles on her bright face, and though her cheek 
Was deadly pale, yet her voice faltered not. 
Her course through life was marl^ed out by the hand 
Of changeless destiny ; her days were past 
In painful study ; she explored the paths 
Of science with a sad delight ; for one 
Faint hope yet lingered that, in after years, 



140 TIIELONELYONE. 

Wlien men should breathe her name in tones of praise, 

He would remember her with thoughts of pride. 

Yet she was not unhappy; she had taught 

His wife to love her, and the innocent face 

Of his fair child oft rested on her heart, 

While its soft arms were twined about her neck 

With all an infant's fondness. 

Years passed on, 
And long ere she had reached hfe's middle course. 
Sorrow amid he lone-one's dark brown locks 
Had mingled silver, while her sunken cheek 
And wasted figure told a mournful tale 
Of the heart's struggle. Well had she subdued 
Each rebel thought ; her eye no longer quailed 
In anguish to behold his tenderness 
Bestowed upon another; for she gave 
To his fair child the fullness of that love 
She dared not yield to him. Alas ! alas ! 
And did she think the heart would thus be swayed 



THE LONELY ONE. 141 

E'en as she listed ; that her will could change 
The course of its affections ? vain deceit ! 
E'en as the breath of winter, while it binds 
The mountain torrent in its icy chains, 
Checks not the current which still rushes on 
Beneath its frozen surface, so the strong, 
Resistless energy of mind may stay 
The outward struggles of the restless soul, 
But cannot reach its inmost depths, where still 
The waves of passion moan. Too soon she knew 
How much she was deceived. Death came, but not 
To her who waited him ; the grief-worn frame 
Was all too mean a prey for him ; he seized 
The gentle wife and mother ; she whose life 
Had been a fairy tale. 

No selfish thought 
Was in the bosom of the lonely one, 
As biending o'er the bed of death, she wept 
Mingling her tears with his ; but when she found 



142 THE LONELY ONE. 

That still he sought for comfort in her kindness, 

E'en when the smile revisited his hp ; 

What marvel if within her breast awoke 

Again the sweet delusions of young hope. — 

The passionate feehngs of his youth w^ere gone ; 

And now^ he turned with tranquil tenderness 

To her affection, e'en as one \\i\\ pause, 

Amid the weary vanities of life, 

To hear some half-forgotten melody 

That charmed his childish hours ; but ah ! the heart 

Which bore so well with sorrow, could not brook 

The fulness of such joy ; and as the flower 

May bide the pelting of the storm, to die 

Beneath the very sun that gave it life, 

Thus did she wither ; but how did she shrink 

To meet the death she once had sought ; how weep 

To check again the love but half subdued ? 

Thus months and weeks passed onw^ard, until he 

Who, in her hour of youth and bloom, had turned 

In coldness from her love, now sought for it 



THE LONELY ONE. 113 

As 'twere his very being — who can speak 

The anguish of her spirit, as with sick 

And swelhng heart she gasped : " It is too late !'• 

As the worn traveller amid the wilds 

Of burning Araby, o'erspent with toil, 

Falls ere he reach the brink of that pure wave 

Which proffers life to his parched lip ; thus she 

Found joy within her grasp but when she knew 

It was her last, her dying hour. — She died — 

Yet as a day of storms will oft-times sink 

With a rich burst of sunlight at its close ; 

Thus did the rays of happiness illume 

Her parting spirit 



THE MORAVIAN BURIAL 
GROUND. 



The following lines are an attempt to convey an idea 
of the simple beauty of the Moravian Burial Ground at 
Bethlehem, Penn. The feelings described suggested 
themselves on the spot ; and the incident alluded to ac- 
tually occurred. 

'Twas one of those sweet days when spring awakes 
Her gentlest zephyrs and her softest hght, 

Wooing the wild flower in the sunny brakes, 
And winning the young bird to joyous flight ; 

While rose the lulling murmur of the bee 

'Mid the sweet soimds of nature's jubilee. 



BURIAL GROUND. 145 

Our loitering feet unconsciously we turned 

Towards a green and solitary lane ; 
A pure, calm spirit in our bosoms burned, 

And feelings saddened, though unmixed with pain — 
Oh ! surely we were then in fitting mood 
To ponder on the grave's dread solitude. 

Through a low gate our quiet steps we bent — 
Was this sweet, lonely spot a burial place ? 

Here was no urn, no sculptured monument, 
But o'er it spring had shed her loveliest trace ; 

For the bright verdure and the fragrant bloom 

Of the wild violet, decked each smiling tomb, 

A lowly mounfl of earth, an humble stone, 
Traced with the name of him who lay beneath, 

A name still dear to love, though never known 
To fame, were all that spoke of dreaded death ; 

Fresh grass,, and flowers, and scented herbs were there 

Filling with brightness earth, with odours air, 
J 4 



146 THE MORAVIAN 

High swelled my heart as 'mid those graves I trod ; 

I felt life's nothingness in that calm hour ; 
My spirit knew the presence of its God, 

And bowed submissive to Almighty power ; 
While humbly now I deemed I ne'er should shrink 
To drain the cup that eai'thly love must drink. . 

I had been an idolater — aye, still 

My heart was vowed upon an earthly shrine ; 
Though checked a moment by that holy thrill, 

I knew my bosom never could resign 
Its deep idolatry till life was past ; 
Had I not cause to fear Heaven's frown at last ? 

Filled with these thoughts,! turned e'en from the brow 
That most I loved, to hide my gushing tears, 

And gazing on the humble graves where low 
Lay buried many a love of other years, 

I threw myself beside a grassy mound 

With reverence, for I felt 'twas holy ground. 



BURIAL GROUND. 147 

For there, with eyhds closed in changeless night, 
The mother and her sinless infant lay ; 

In the same hour death breathed o'er both his blight ; 
And in one pang their spirits passed away — 

The all of mother's feelings she had known 

Were the keen throe, the agony alone ; 

Alas for earthly joy, and hope, and love, 

Thus stricken down e'en in their holiest hour ! 

What deep, heart-wringing anguish must they prove " 
Who live to weep the blasted tree and flower! 

Oh, woe, deep woe to earthly love's fond trust, 

When all it once has worshipped lies in dust ! 

There was one hillock decked beyond the rest. 
Where rue, and thyme, and violets, were sighing ; 

No trace of earth defaced its verdant breast ; 
The wild bee o'er the sunny flowers was fl}ing, 

Or hiding, mid the odorous buds and leaves. 

Beneath the dewy veil the evening weaves. 



14$ THE MORAVIAN 

There slept the patriarch of fourscore years, 
Whose long life like an April day had closed 

In smiles and sunsliine after clouds and tears ; 
Now calm in death liis aged form i-eposed ; 

Wliile oft affection's pearly teai's bedewed 

The flowers that decked his peaceful sohtude. 

Lo ! while we gazed, with slow and noiseless tread 
A female form drew nigh ; her right hand bore 

A water-urn ; and o'er th' unconscious dead 
Lowly she bent its freshening dews to pour, 

Till the flowers brightly 'neath the sun gleamed up, 

Each beai'ing a rich gem within its cup. 

Ten years had passed since he who slumbered there, 
Had cast aside the weight of clay, and yet 

His grave still fondly claimed a daughter's care ; 
Still was it visited with deep regret ; 

Such was the love of hearts o'er which no trace 

Of earth had passed affection to efface. 



BURIAL GROUND. 



149 



Then with tumultuous feelings all subdued 
By death's undreaded presence, I awoke 

My song's low murmurs in that solitude, 

And thus my half-breathed whispers softly broke : 

When in the shadow of the tomb 

This heart shall rest, 
Oh ! lay me where spring flowerts bloom 

On earth's bright breast. 

Oh ! ne'er in vaulted chambers lay 

My hfeless form ; 
Seek not of such mean, worthless prey 

To cheat the worm. 

In this sweet city of the dead 

I fain would sleep, 
Where liowers may deck my narrow bed, 

And night dews weep. 



14* 



150 THE MORAVIAN, &C. 

But raise not the sepulcliral stone 

To mark the spot; 
Enough, if by thy heart alone 

'Tis ne'er forgot. 



THE MOTHER'S FAREWELL 

TO HER WEDDED DAUGHTER. 

Go, dearest one, my selfish love shall never pale thy 
cheek ; 

Not e'en a mother's fears for thee will I in sadness 
speak : 

Yet how can I with coldness check the burning tears 
that start?— 

Hast thou not turned from me to dwell within ano- 
ther's heart ? 

I think on earlier, brighter days, when first my lip was 

prest 
Upon thy baby brow wliilst thou lay helpless on my 

breast. 
In fancy still I see thine eye uplifted to my face, 
I hear thy hsping tones, and mark with joy thy cliild- 

ish grace. 



153 TTiE mother's farewell 

E'en then I knew it would be thus ; I thought e'en in 

thiit hour, 
Another would its perfume steal when I had reared 

the flower ; 
And yet I will not breathe a sigh — how can I dare 

repine ? 
The sorrow that thy mother feels was suffered once 

by mine. 

A mother's love ! — oh ! thou knowest not how much of 

feeling lies 
In those sweet words ; the hopes, the fears, the daily 

strengthening ties : 
It lives ere yet the infant draws its earliest vital 

breath, 
And dies but when the mother's heart chills in the ^ 

grasp of death. 



TO HER WEDDED DAUGHTER. 153 

Will he in who se fond arms thou seek'st thine all of 

earthly bliss, 
E'er feel a love untiring, deep, and free from self as 

this? 
Ah, no ! a husband's tenderness thy gentle heart may 

prove ; 
But never, never wilt thou meet again a mother's 

love. 

My love for thee must ever be fond as in years gone 

by; 
While to thy heart I shall be like a dream of memory. 
Dearest farewell, may angel hosts their vigils o'er thee 

keep, — 
IIow can I speak that fearful word * farewell' and yet 

not weep ? 
1825. 



TO THE EVENING STAR 



* * * " A single star 

Is rising in the East, and from afar 
Sheds a most tremulous lustre ; silent night 
Doth wear it like a jewel on her brow." 

Barry Cornwall. 

" Oh what a vision were the stars 



When tirst I saw them burn on high.' 



Moore. 



• Pale, melancholy star ! that pourest thy beams 
So mildly on my brow, pure as the tear 
A pitying angel sheds o'er earthly sorrow, 
I love to sit beneath thy light and yield 
My heart to its strange musings, waj^^ard dreams 
Of things inscrutable, and searching thoughts 
That would aspire to dwell in yon liigh sphere. 
I love to think that thou art a bright world 
Where bliss and beauty dwell ; where never sin 



TO THE EVENING STAR. 155 

Has entered to destroy the perfect jo5^s 

Of its pure, holy habitants. 'Tis sweet 

To fancy such a quiet, peaceful home 

Of innocence, and purity, and love. 

There the first sire still dwells with all his race, 

From his loved eldest-born to the sweet babe 

Of yesterday ; there gentle maids are seen 

Fair as the sun, with all that tenderness 

So sweet in woman ; and soft eyes that beam 

The fondest love, but freed from passion's stain. 

There all have high communion with their God, 

And though the fruit of knowledge is not plucked, 

Yet doth its fragrance breathe on all around. 

Oh ! what can knowledge give to recompense 

The happy ignorance it cost ? Man gave 

His heaven to gain it — what was his reward ? — 

Deep, lasting misery ! 

Sweet Star ! can those in thy bright sphere behold 
Our fallen world ? do they not weep to view 



156 TO THE EVENING STAR, 

Our blighting sorrows ? and do they not veil 

Their brows in shame, to see heaven's choicest gifts 

Profaned and trampled by our maddening passions ? 

Surely tliis world is now as beautifld 

As 'twas in earliest prime : the earth still blooms 

With flowers and brilliant verdure ; the dark trees 

Are thick with foilage, and the mountains tower 

In proud sublimity ; the waters glide 

All smoothly 'mid the green, enamelled mead, 

Or dash o'er broken cliffs, flinging their spray 

In high fantastic whirls. Surely 'tis fair 

As it could be before the wasting flood 

Had whelmed it. Let us forth and gaze upon 

The face of nature. All is peaceful now, 

Yet man will tread there too ; cities will rise 

Where now the wild bird sings ; thousands will dwell 

Where all is loneliness ; but will it be 

More beautiful ? No ; where the wild flowers spring, 

Where nought but the bird's note is heard, we may 

Find friends in every leaf; each simple bud 



TO THE EVENING STAR. 157 

>Spcaks to the heart and fills it with the sweet, 
Soft tenderness of childhood ; but vain man 
Makes it a peopled wilderness : the blight 
Of disappointment and distrust is found 
Wherever man has made his troubled home ; 
And the most fearful desart is the spot 
Where he best loves to dwell. 

Oh ! let me hope, while gazing on thy light, 
Sweet Star ! that yet a peaceful home is left 
For those sad spirits who have found this world 
All sin and sorrow. Haply in thy sphere 
I yet may dwell, when cleansed from all the stains 
Of passions that too darkly dwell within 
This throbbing heart. Oh! had I early died, 
I might have been a pure and sinless child 
In some sweet planet ; and my only toil, 
To light my censer by the sun's bright rays, 
And fling its fire forever toward the throne 
Of the Eternal One. 

15 



TO FANCY 



" Fancy, my internal sight." 

Milton. 



Sweet Fancy ! I have been thy favoured child 
From earliest infancy ; and thou wert wont 
To show me thy bright imager}^ ere yet 
My young lips could frame language to describe 
The fair but fleeting shadows : thou hast nursed 
Those warm and ardent feelings nature gave ; 
And though 'tis true that thou hast taught my h^art 
To heave the quickened throb of deeper anguish 
Than cold ones e'er can feel ; yet thou has given 
Joys they can never know. I love to see 
The setting sun resting his broad bright rim 
Upon the golden wave, as lingering there 



TO FANCY. 159 

To bid tke world farewell ; and when he sinks, 
To watch the thousand summer clouds he leaves 
Of strange fantastic shape and varied hue. 
Then is tliine hour bright Fancy — then is felt 
Thy softest, sweetest influence o'er the heart. 
Oh! when I gaze upon th' unclouded heaven 
Studded with gems of brilliancy, my soul 
Forgets the lapse of time ; and doth recall 
The phantasies so proud and beautiful 
Of ancient times : the stars were then in truth 
* The poetry of Heaven,* and had high power 
O'er mortal fate. 'Tis sad that those sweet dreams 
Are now denied us : oh, how much more bliss 
Lies in the legend of our infant years, 
Than in the sad reahty we learn ! 

Many would deem me weak ; but I have gazed 
Upon the fairy clouds and pictured there 
Familiar forms and faces ; and have felt 
That I could almost weep to see them fade, 



160 



TO FANCY. 



So like a presage of the transient date 
Of all life's changeful joys. It may be vain 
To yield to these impressions ; but what heart 
Could scorn such gentle dreams in early youth. 

I love to look upon the clouded sky, 
When the fierce forked lightning flashes bright. 
And the deep roar of Heaven's artillery 
Sounds fearfully ; and I can calmly view 
The strife of elements ; and fancy then 
I hear the shouts of proud rebellious spirits 
Storming the towers and battlements of Heaven. 
Oh, what a depth of feeling lies within 
The full, the o'erfraught heart in such an hour ! — 
And this too is thine hour, bright Fancy, this 
Thy proudest, mightiest power. In the sweet calm 
Of evening, thou dost come with whispers bland, 
And all its gentleness ; but when the storm 
Is raging thou dost speali in majesty, 
And ihe full heart is lifted to the Heavens, 



TO FANCY. 161 

While we can feel there yet is high communion 
Between fallen man and pure angelic natures. 

Could but the sceptic feel the thrilling power 
Of chastened fancy at a time like tliis, 
Surely the blush of shame would tinge his cheek. 
Would not the deep emotions of his soul 
Prove that high soul immortal ? Can it be 
That we should have such glimpses of a light 
Not of tliis world, if we are ne'er to see 
The fulness of its glory ? Can the man 
Who feels the restless workings of a mind 
Aspiring after knowledge, think that earth 
Can limit the expansion of his soul ? 
No, he must deem that there will come a time 
When all shall be unfolded — 'tis a proud, 
An elevating thought — Oh, who would doubt ? 

1824. 



15^ 



TO 



There's a cloud on the mountain, a mist on the lake ; 
Is not this a warning the storm soon will break ? 
Though the sun on the meadows is still shining clear, 
Yet the wild winds are sighing, the tempest is near. 

There's a shade on thy brow, and a tear in thine eye 
Seen through the long lashes that over it lie ; 
And though on thy hp is the bright beaming smile, 
Yet sad thoughts are hid in thy bosom the while. 

The sun's brilliant beams have dispersed the dark cloud, 
And no longer the mist the lake's bosom doth shroud, 
Oh ! thus let the smile on thy lip ever glow. 
Till its brightness has driven the shade from thy brow. 

Aye, changes may pass over nature's sweet face. 
And smiles may the gloom of the countenance chase ; 
But when sorrow has long made its home in the heart, 
Oh ! w here is the light that can bid it depart ? 



STANZAS. 



" The early g^rave 
Which men weep over, may be meant to save." 

Byron. 

Weep not for those 
Who sink within the arms of death, 
Ere yet the chilHng wintry breath 

Of sorrow o'er them blows ; 
But weep for them who iiere remain 
The mournful heritors of pain, 
Condemned to see each bright joy fade, 
And mark grief's melancholy shade 

Flung o'er hope's fairest rose. 



161 STANZAS. 

Nay, shed no tear 
For those Avho soundly, sweetly sleep ; 
They heed not the cold blasts that sweep 

Across theh' lowly bier ; 
But weep for those who see the cloud 
Of miseiy youth's bright heaven enshroud ; 
And view the flowers that deck life's path 

Fall dry and sear. 

Dread not the tomb — 
To those who feel that youth survives 
The joys that youthful fancy gives, 

It wears no face of gloom. 
It is a quiet, peaceful home 
For those who through life's desart roam : 
A place for wearied ones to rest, 
Where o'er the painful, care-worn breast 

Spring flowers may bloom. 



WILLIAM TELL ON THE 
MOUNTAINS. 



"Yet, Freedom! yet, thy banner torn, but flying, 
Streams like a thunder-storm against the wind." 

Childe Harold. 

Once more I breathe the mountain air, once more 
I tread my own free hills — e'en as the child 
Clings to its mother's breast, so do I turn 
To thee my glorious home. My lofty soul 
Throws all its fetters off; in its proud flight, 
'Tis like the new-fledged eaglet, whose strong wing 
Soars to the sun it long has gazed upon 
With eye undazzled. — Oh ! ye mighty race, 



166 WILLIAM TELL 

That stand like frowning giants, fixed to guai'd 
•My own proud land, why did ye not hurl down 
The thundering avalanche, when at your feet 
The base usurper stood ? A touch, a breath, 
Nay, e'en the breath of prayer, ere now has brought 
Destruction on the hunter's head, and yet 
The tyrant passed in safety. — God of Heaven ! 
Where slept thy thunderbolt ? 

Oh! Liberty, 
Thou choicest gift of heaven, £ind wEinting wliich, 
Life is as nothing, ha«t thou then forgot 
Thy native home ; and must the feet of slaves 
Pollute this glorious scene ? It cannot be ! 
E'en as the smile of heaven can pierce the depths 
Of these dark caves, and bid the wild flowers bloom. 
In spots w^here man has never dared to tread ; 
So thy sweet influence still is seen amid 
These beetling cliffs : some hearts yet beat for thee 
And bow alone to heaven : thy spirit lives, 



ON THE MOUNTAINS'. 167 

Aye, and shall live, when e'en the very name . 

Of tyrant is forgot. Lo ! while I gaze 

Upon the mist that wreathes yon mountain's brow, 

The sunbeam touches it, and it becomes 

A crown of glory on his hoary head: 

Oh ! is not this a presage of the dawn 

Of freedom o'er the w^orld ? Hear me, thou bright 

And beaming heaven ! while kneeling thus, I swear 

To live for freedom or with her to die. 



WILLIAM TELL IN CHAINS. 



What ! does he think that bonds can chain the mind ? 
That dungeon air can taint the spotless soul ? 
Fond fool ! let Gesler wear his princely pomp, 
If he would know the weight of real chains ; 
And learn that, to the base and crouching slave. 
All earth is one wide prison house. In vain 
They shut me from the blessed light of Heaven ; 
They cannot dim the inward ray that sheds 
Such brightness on my spirit. — I have dwelt 
Upon the lofty mountain tops, and held 
High converse with the elements, and gazed 



Upon the sun, until Iiis very beams 



WILLIAM TELL IN CHAINS. 169 

Became as 'twere a language ; shall I seek 

To win the smile of princes ? I have watched 

The storm-clouds gather round the snow-capped cliff, 

And, in the rolling thunder, heard the threat 

Of an offended God ; shall I bow down 

Before the wrath of tyrants ? — never, never ! 

When thou canst tame the eagle down to wear 

The jesses of the falcon, or canst yoke 

The lion to the humble steer, then hope, 

Proud Gesler, to behold the brow of Tell 

Bending before thy footstool. 



NOTE. — The first of these two pieces was written after seeing 
Macready's personation of William Tell; and the second after 
seeing Inman's admirable picture of that distinguished actor as 
"William Tell in chains. 



1(5 



/ 



STANZAS 



" Or sai tu dove e quando questi amori 
Furpn creati e come." 



I loved thee — not because thy brow 

Was bright and beautiful as day, 
Nor that on thy sweet lip the glow 

Was joyous as yon sunny ray ; 
No ; though I saw thee fairest far, 
The sun that hid each meaner star ; 
Yet 'twas not this that taught me fir^t 
The love that silent tears have nui'fct. 



Dante. 



STANZAS. 171 

Nor was it that thine every word 
With stores of intellect was fraught, 

With eloquence each heart that stirred, 
With deepest feeling, holiest tliought ; 

Nor thy sweet voice, whose witching spell 

Like music on my spirit fell, 

Rich as the notes the mellow horn 

Breathes when o'er moon-lit waters borne. 

But I beheld the darkening stain 

Of tears becloud that beaming eye, 
And marked thy bosom's secret pain 

Find utterance in the struggling sigh : 
Then too, like some neglected lute, 
My young heart's sweetest chords were mute ; 
No hand had ever touched its strings 
To wake its blissful murmurings — 
Was it not then just fit to be 
Roused by the touch of sympathy ? 



172 STANZAS. 

Yes, thine the touch that first awdke 

The hidden music of my heart ; 
Thy hand the chain of silence broke, 

And bade it love's sweet tones impart : 
And now could even beauty wane 
Till not one noble trace remain ; 
Could genius sink in dull decay, 
And wisdom cease to lend her ray ; 
Should all that I have worshipped change, 
E'en this could not my heart estrange ; 
Thou still wouldst be the first, the first 
That taught the love sad tears have nurst. 



A SKETCH. 



The heart must 



Leap kindly back to kindness." — 

Byron. 



One arm around her silent harp was flung ; 
Her brow was bending o'er it, and its chords 
Were twined with her dark tresses : wrapt in thought 
She siirless sate ; but when the soft breeze fanned 
The rii^lets from her cheek, a glow was seen 
Like the rich hue that decks the Florence rose ; 
And the sweet smile that hovered round her lip 
Was bright as April sun-light ; in her eye 
Was hope with sadness blended, as if joy 
Had been so long a stranger to her heart 
That now she scarce dared welcome it. She spoke, 
And the low accents of her voice were sweet 

16* 



1T4 A SKETCH. 

Yet melancholy as the moaning wave : 
* Affection wins affection'—" were not these 
The blessed words he uttered ? — Yes, my heart 
While yet with life it throbs, can ne'er forget 
How like the fresh'ning dews of heaven they^ame, 
Waking new hopes, renewing faded dreams 
And thrilling all my frame with sudden joy" — 
She paused, while her light fingers touched the harp 
And woke a low and plaintive prelude, then 
Again she murmured — "Oh, had not the eyes 
Of strangers been upon us in that hour 
Of new-born hope and happiness, methinks 
I would have touched my harp and thus replied, 
When he exclaimed," ' affection wins affection :' 

Mine own beloved, believest thou aught of this ? 

Oh ! then no more 
My heart, o'er early faded dreams of bliss. 

Its wail shall pour. 



A SKETCH. 175 

Give me this hope, though only from afar 

It sheds its Hght, 
And, Hke yon dewy melancholy star, • 

With tears is bright. 

Let me but hope a heart with fondness fraught, 

That could not sin 
Against its worshipped idol, e'en in thought. 

Thy love may win : 

Let me but hope the changeless love of years, 

The tender care 
That fain would die to save thine eye from tears, 

Thy heart may share. 

Or let me hope at least that, when no more 

My voice shall meet 
The ear that listens only to think o'er 

Tones far more sweet ; 



1T6 A SKETCH. 

Wlien the kind shelter of the grave shall hide 

This faded brow, 
This form once gazed upon with pride, 

With coldness now ; 

When never more my weary steps of pain 

Around thee move, 
"Wlien loosed forever is life's heavy chain, 

Love will win love. 



TO 



Thou art amid the festive halls, 

Where beauty wakes her spells for thee : 
Where music oh thy spirit falls 

Like moonlight on the sea ; 
But now while fairer brows are smiling, 
And brighter lips thy heairt beguiling, 

Thinkest thou of me ? 

Fair forms and faces pass thee by 
Like bright creations of a dream. 

And love-lit eyes, when thou art nigh, 
With softer splendors beam : 

Life's gayest witcheries are round thee ; 

But now while mirth and joy surround thee 
Thinkest thou of me ? 



THE DYING YEAR. 



The dying year ! how are those few w^ords fraught 

With images of fading lovehness ! 
How do they fill with dreams of saddened thought 

The heart that sighs o'er all that once could bless ! 
They fall with mournful sound upon the ear, 
The knell of something we have long held dear. 

Thou frail and dying year ! ah ! where are now 

The charms that have in turn been all thine' own ? 
The Spring's young bloom, the Summer's ripened 
glow. 
The Autumn's mournful splendor all are gone ; 
And thou art sinking in oblivion's wave — 
Would that the griefs thou gavest might there too fmd 
a grave ! 



THE DYING YEAR. 179 

Aye, years may pass ; but yet time's rapid flight 
Would be unheeded, were it not he flings 

A cloud o'er all youth's hopes and fancies bright — 
Alas ! he bears upon his shadowy wings 

Darkness, distrust, and sorrow ; wliile the mind 

Pines 'mid the gloom to w hich it is consigned. 

Thou dying year ! hast thou not swept away 
Joys dearer far than any thou hast left ? 

Have we not seen our hopes with thee decay ; 
Felt ourselves almost desolate and reft 

Of all the fairest, brightest things of earth ? — 

Have we not turned away sick of the world's vain mirth? 

Have we not prayed that thou wouldst quickly fleet, 
When we were sunk in sorrow's deepest gloom ? 

Have we not learned each coming day to greet, 
Because it brought us nearer to the tomb ? 

And thou hast fleeted, and with thee has past 

The strong, deep misery that could not last. 



180 THE DYING YEAK. 

Son'ow treads heavily, and leaves behind 
A deep impression e'en when* she departs : 

While joy trips by with steps light as the wind, 
And scarcely leaves a trace upon our hearts 

Of her faint footfalls :* only this is sure. 

In this world nought save suffering can endure. 

Yet thou art a kind monitor ; and we 

In thee may trace the progress of our lives : 

My si>ring time is yet new ; I ne'er may see 
The summer ; and the fruits that autumn gives 

For me may never ripen — o'er my brow 

Ere then the grass may rustle. — Be it so ! 
1825. 



* The reader will easily recognize here one of Henry Neele' 
beautiful thoughts. 



STANZAS. 



" None such true joy are reaping 
As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping. 

Byron. 

He slumbered ; and unseen I gazed 

Upon his gentle brow ; 
The eye where so much brightness blazed, 

Was closed in darkness now ; 
And yet its glories scarce were hid 
Beneath that soft and shadowy lid. 

He slumbered ; and his lip might seem 

A young pomegranate flower, 
Ere yet the sun had stolen the sweets 

Of morning's dewy hour — 
Oh ! words from other lips were nought 
Compared with what his silence taught, 

17 



182 STANZAS. 

He woke — I started at the blaze 
From 'neath his eyelid's veil ; 

And felt before his earnest gaze 
My lofty spn-it quail ; 

Till love's sweet softness dimmed the pride 

Of splendors which it could not hide. 

He woke ; and o'er his glorious lip 

A smile so lovely stole, 
Like music from an angel harp 

It thrilled my inmost soul : 
Oh ! if in sleep that face was fair, 
Think what it was When smiles were there. 

Then blame me not ; say not 'tis sin 

To deem that form divine ; 
The noble mind that dwells within, 

Is worthy such a shrine ; 
And when I worship him I bow 
Only to virtue's fairest brow. 



THE MAIDEN TO HER REJECTED 
LOVER. 

My heart is with its early dream ; it cannot turn away 

To seek again the joys of earth, and mingle with the 
gay: 

The dew-nursed flower that lifts its brow beneath the 
shades of night, 

Must wither when the sunbeam sheds its too resplen- 
dent light. 

My heart is with its early dream ; and vainly love's 
soft power 

Would seek to charm that heart anew, in some un- 
guarded hour. 

I would not that some gentle one should hear my fre- 
quent sigh: 

The deer that bears its death- wound turns in loneliness 
to die. 



184 REJECTED LOVER. 

My heart is with its early dream ; I cannot now for- 
get 

The phantasy whose faded light illumes my spirit yet : 

The summer sun may sink at once beneath the wes- 
tern main, 

But long u]3on Heaven's dark'ning brow the clouds his 
light retain. 

My heart is with its early dream ; yet there are mo- 
ments still 

When, like a pulse within my soul, I feel joy's tran- 
sient thrill ; 

For never can I hear unmoved the words of friend- 
ship spoken : 

The blast that rends the wind-god's harp, may leave 
one string unbroken. 



STANZAS 



"I did love once 
As youth, as woman, genius loves." 

L.E. L. 

Oh ! knowest thou, dear one, the love of youth 

\Vith its wayward fancies, its untried truth ; 

Yet cloudless and warm as. the. sunny ray 

That opens the flowers of a summer's day, 

Unfolding the passionate thoughts that lie 

'Mid feelings pure as an angel's sigh ; 

Till the loftiest strength of our nature wakes 

As an infant giant from slumber breaks : 

Oh, knowest thou, dear, what this love may be ? 

In earher days such was mine for thee. 

Oh, knowest thou, dear one, of woman's love 

With its faith that woes but more deeply prove ; 

.17*" 



186 



STANZAS 



Its fondnes wide as the limitless wave, 

And chainless by aught than the silent grave ; 

With devotion as humble as that which brings 

To his idol the Indian's offerings ; 

Yet proud as that which the priestess feels, 

When she nurses the flame of the shrine while she 

kneels : 
Oh, knowest thou, dear, what this love may be ? 
Such ever has been in my heart for thee. 

Oh knowest thou the love of a poet's soul, 

Of the mind that from heaven its brightness stole, 

Wlien the gush of song, hke the life-blood springs 

Unchecked from the heart, and the spirit's wings 

Are nerved anew in a loftier flight 

To seek for its idol a crown of light ; 

When the visions that wake beneath fancy's beam, 

But serve to brighten an earthly dream: 

Oh, knowest thou, dear, what this love may be ? 

Such long has been in my heart for thee. 



STANZAS. 187 

Oh, tell me, dear, can such love decay 
Like the sapless weed in the morning ray i 
Can the love of earlier, brighter years 
Be chased away like an infant's tears ? 
Can the long tried faith of a woman's heart 
Like a summer bird from its nest depart 1 
Can affection nursed within fancy's bowers, 
Find deadly herbs 'mid those fragrant flowers? 
Oh ! no, beloved one, it cannot be : 
Such end awaits not my love for thee 

Youth's pure fresh feelings have faded now ; 

But not less warm is love's summer glow ; 

Dark frowns may wither, unkindness blight 

The heart where thou art the only light ; 

And coldness may freeze the wild gush of song, 

Or chill the spirit once tameless and strong ; 

And the pangs of neglected love may prey 

Too fatally, dear, on this fragile clay ; 

But never, Oh ! never, beloved, can it be 

That my heart should forget its deep fondness for thee. 



SPRING BREEZES. 



Ye joyous breezes, 1 trace your way 
O'er the meadows decked in their bright array : 
The flowrets are bending your steps to greet ; 
New blossoms are springing beneath your feet ; 
While the rosebud her freshest fragrance flings, 
And woos ye to rest your wearied wnngs. 

But on ye pass — for no charm ye stay — 
Still onw^ard ye hold your gladdening way. 
Your breath has rippled the mountain stream. 
And a thousand suns from its surface gleam ; 
Your voice has wakened the wild bjrd's note, 
And fragrance and melody round ye float. 



SPRING BREEZES. 189 

Ye joyous breezes, still on ye go ; 
Your breath is passing o'er beauty's brow ; 
Your wings are stirring her radiant hair ; 
Your kiss is brightening her cheek so fair ; 
And the innocent thoughts of her heart rejoice 
With the mirthful tones of your wild sweet voice. 

*' Though flowers may gladden our path to day, 

When to-morrow we come, they are passed away ; 
/ And the cheerful smile, and the rosy hue, 

From the cheek of beauty have faded too ; 
* "And our gentle whispers no more impart 

A feeling of joy to her youthful heart. 

" Is our path then marked by so much of mirth ? 

Alas for the folly and blindness of earth ! 

Is there not mingled a voice of wail 

With the sweetest tones of the young spring gale ? 

If like infancy's joyous laugh we rise, 

Pass we not onward like manhood's sighs ? 



190 SPRING BREEZES*' - * 

" We but do the will of our master here, 
Our joy is found in a holier sfihere : 
We are boi*n in Heaven, can our purer breath 
Pass mirthfully over the fields of death ? 
And what is earth with its transient bloom 
And fading charms, but a flower-decked tomb ?*' 



SONG OF MORNING 



I come, I come from the fields of light ; 

My herald-star chases the shadows of night ; 

The dew of the evening lies thick on the grass,. 

Still gemming the pathway my footstep mast pass : 

While the wild-flower joyously raises its head, 

And breathes its rich sw eets 'neath my echoless tread. 

O'er gardens just waking frf»m slumber I fling 
The perfumes of Heaven from my noiseless wing ; 
My breath is crisping the silent lake, 
Till its gentle wavelets in brightness break ; 
And the soft air is mingled with music and glee 
By the song of the lark and the voice of the bee. 



192 SONG OF MORNING. 

But man who alone of all creatures, may raise 

To the glories of Heaven his uplifted gaze — 

Is joy in his heart ; does delight fill his eye 

When he sees my glad footsteps in brightness pass by ? 

Like the song of the bird and the bee, does his voice, 

In the pride of new life and new vigour rejoice ? 

Oh ! no ; for too often my earliest glance 
But rouses his soul from sleep's bright-visioned trance; 
And coldly he turns from the sweet dreams of night 
To the splendors that waken with mornings glad light ; 
And the sunbeam small pleasure to him can impart, 
When it w^akes to new sorrows his slumbering heart. 

How often has burst forth the weariful sigh, 
As the bloom and the freshness of morning came by 
Outshining the light of the student's pale lamp, 
But chilling the ardour no darkness could damp, 
While wnth loathing he looks on the glorious ray 
That calls liim from intellect's treasiures away. 



SOXa OF MORNING. 193 

How oft have the sweets of my perfumed breath 
Fanned the clustering locks on the forehead of death, 
And played in the folds of the snow-white vest 
That encircled the form for the earth-worm dressed, 
Till it seemed to the mourner's bewildered eye 
As if moved by the life-pulse again strong and high ! 

And they who in dreams, see the gentle smile 

That never their waking thoughts more shall beguile : 

The broken in health, and the wearied in heart — 

Oh ! joy they not rather to see me depart ? 

And smile they not more at night's gathering gloom, 

Since another day brings them more nigh to the tomb ? 



18 



"^f^ 



^ 



THE FAREWELL 



" It was a peasant girl's, whose soul was given 
To one as far above her as the pine 
Towers o'er the lowly violet." 

L. E. L. 



Go, dearest one ; nor think my heart will ever breathe 

a sigh 
Because it never now can share thy glorious destiny. 
My love has never sought reward ; 'twas joy enough 

for me 
To pass my hfe in loneliness and cherish thoughts of 

thee. 



THE FAREWELL. 195 

Wliile yet a child, I freely gave afTection's untold 

wealth ; 
Since then I've known the swift decay of hope, and 

joy, and health, 
And murmured not at Heaven's decree ; though thus 

of all bereft ; — 
How could I mourn ? whilst iliou wert mine a world 

of bhss was left. 



Though other ties may bind thee, dear ; though we 

are doomed to part ; 
Yet still it is not sin to hide thine image in my heart ; 
So pure, so holy was the spell which love around us 
1%. cast. 

That even now I would not wake, although the charm 
be past. 



196 THE FAREWELL. 

And in thy memory by-past days will leave their gen- 
tle trace ; 

Not all the fondness of a wife those bright tints can 
efface. 

Her lot may be of happiness beyond stern fate's con- 
trol ; 

But / have known a purer joy — the union of the soul, — 



Farewell, beloved one, when thy brow the laurel 

crown shall bind ; 
And when adoring crowds shall own the sovereignty 

of mind ; 

Then think of one who looks on thee with more than 

woman's pride, -*? 

1 
And glories in the thought that she has been thy spirits 

bride. 



<-^^ 



LIFE. 



When Hope's faiiy fingers are straying 

O'er the chords of the youthful heart, 
And fancy in prospect displaying 

The bliss that new years may impart ; 
When sweet feelings are ever up-springing, 

And the pulses all joyously beat ; 
When each day a new pleasure is bringing, 

Oh ! then indeed life is most sweet. 

When the torch of affection just ligh ed, 

Burns bright on the altar of truth, 
Ere the cold, selfish world yet has blighted 

One innocent feeling of youth ; 
When earth seems a garden unfading 

Where flowers spring around our glad feet ; 
When no cloud our bright heaven is shading, 

Oh ! then indeed life is most sweet. 



198 LIFE. 

When the cold breath of sorrow is sweeping 

O'er the chords of the youthful heart, 
And the youthful eye, dimmed with strange weeping, 

Sees the visions of fancy depart ; 
When the bloom of young feeling is dyings 

And the heart throbs with passion's fierce strife ; 
When our sad days are wasted in sighing, 

Who then can find sweetness in hfe ? 

When unkindness, or coldness has faded 

The pm-e, hallowed light of true love, 
And the mists of the dark earth have shaded 

The dreams that o'er young spirits move ; 
When earth seems a wide Waste of sorrow 

No longer with bright blessings rife ; 
When we look but for clouds on each morrow, 

Who then can find sweetness in life ? 



# 



THE FADED PASSION FLOWER 



Aye, keep the flower ; 'tis faded now, 
And all unmeet to deck thy brow ; 
But though of beauty thus bereft, 
How much of sweetness still is left ! 

Aye, keep the flower ; and if it grieves 
Thy heart to see its faded leaves, 
Forget it ever was more fair. 
And think its fragrance still is there. 

Aye, keep the flower ; another eye 
Might heedless pass the blossom by; 
But will it not far dearer be 
When wakes its perfume but for thee ? 



200 *¥he passion flower. 



Aye, keep the flower ; and shouldst thou seek 
An emblem of my faded cheek, 
Thou'h find it there — from Heaven's own light 
Came both its beauty and its blight. 

Aye, keep the flower ; and it may seem 
An emblem of my bosom's dream ; 
Joy's brilliant hue not long could last ; 
But when, oh ! when shall Love be past ? 



THE END 



LIBRAHY ur y;^''^ 



015 863 550 1 _W^ 






